t'i . 


■) l If 

.*)!, ii % l |J, a 

> y i** / ’/ * \ i* 

({ » 


I // / i ) 

v y w v’ 


V * 

t ' • 


i/i)WL 

| ^ if f 

i Wilt' 

1 /, HA. 1 



wu 1 

11 Mi iiiV 

























Class T£. 
Book T 3 


























£ritttfg etc (See 


JkfecftonB from 

“ZU trinity &>6fet” 

1887*1894 


(tte forte cretos mterttura 


(Bbtteb 6g 

(Beorge HEtffiam (gftts '94 
(KoBert flouts $abbocft '94 
©e forest 96 



Ibartforb Conn. 

press of Ube Case Xocfewoob & JBrafnarb Company 
1894 










f%\ 

T ' 


' ©t 



« 

C 


< 
( 

t c 
( 1 
< C 


c 

( ( 

I. ( 

< < c 
c < 


< c 

C- 
c < 
c C 


( 

€ « 

C C C 

< C 

< < C 


( 

< 

c 

( 

t 


< 

t 

( 

« 


c < < 
c 

% « 
< 

c < « 


« t « i 
< * 

C « t 

t * 

f « 


c 

( 

c 


t 

c 

c 


c 

l 

c 



< < < 
< 

< c 
( 

c c < 


c < 
c 

( < 
c < 






< I 

c 

< < 
c 
c 




“ stoop to 6fame 

sort of trifftng 

— 36rown(mj 























































































. 















































* 





























































£o f$e 

jfounberB of “£()c £d5fef” 


t$\B coffecfton of J&fiefcfJeB 
ts tnBcrtfieb 

63 tfyciv BucceBBors of 1894 



Contents 


Swiss Idyls. W . D . McCrackan , ’£ j , . 9 

The Story of an Artist’s Model. R . C . Tuttle , * Sg , . 21 

With Poet’s Eyes. D . Willard , ’95,.34 

Over the Coffee Cups. Z. IF. Rogers , ’9/, ... 39 

Amiee. Z. IF. ZV/eV, ’9^,.44 

“ Pity the Blind.” .< 4 . Z. Green , ’97,.55 

A Marsh Flower. Z. ^ 4 . Horne , ’95*,.59 

The Sea Spiders. ^ 4 . Z. Green , ’97,.66 

Pierre’s Return. ^ 4 . Z. Green , ' gi , .67 

A Deceptive Dinner. R . C . Tongue , ' gj , .... 69 

The Philosophy of an Old Pipe. J . B . Birckhead , ’9^. 73 

An Apologue of Pessimism,.77 

At a Bud German. G . IF Bills , ’9^.82 

Through the Drop Curtain. H . S . Candee , } gj , . . 90 

An Afternoon Tea. R . C . Tuttle , ’ 8 g .99 

The Man who got Converted. Z. IF. Rogers , ’97, . 108 

Football as it is Played. Z. IF. Rogers , ’97, . . . 113 

The Fore-Wheel of Time. C . F . Johnson , . . . 115 

This Thankless World. Z. IF Rogers , ' gi , ... 122 

A Stroll about the College. R . P . Bates , ' gj , . . 126 


( 5 ) 







S ING, sing, loud let us sing. 

Our cares away we fling. 

For friends are dear and hearts are free. 
Come, share our joy with song and glee. 

Oh ! let the echoes ring 
At Trinity! 

Sing, sing, sadly sing. 

Some songs regret will bring. 

Our hearts it rends to part from friends, 

And time will never make amends. 

Some songs regret will bring 
At Trinity! 

Sing, sing, gladly sing. 

Still let the echoes ring. 

Well fear no storm while hearts are warm, 
No shock can love or friendship harm. 

Still let the echoes ring 
At Trinity'! 

Melville Knox Bailey 


( 6 ) 


Ttvinitp 


1 


















































































































































































































































- 















HOEING POTATOES. 


A LL the valleys hushed. The lakes black. 
A mist in the hollows, smelling moist and 
tasting smoky. 

Then, on the top of the Jungfrau, a sudden 
gleam alighted. The sun crept down the great 
aretes, — those arms of the goddess draped in mus¬ 
lin. It burnished the rounded snow slopes into 
rich saffron, and cast mauve shadows into the ser- 
acs and crevasses. The light chased the gloom 
from the abyss where the avalanches fall, — that 
lap of the goddess. It stripped the darkness from 
her sheer sides. 

With this, the virgin seemed to wake and 
stretch and smile. 

She saw two women and a child hoeing pota¬ 
toes on the Almend of Unterseen. They were 
dressed partly in brown homespun, partly in non¬ 
descript calicoes. Their feet stood in great un¬ 
gainly shoes with wooden soles. The grandmother 
still wore her hair twined with white braid, Ober- 
land-fashion, but the young woman tried to be 
modern. As for the child, it played in the dirt. 

And so the women toiled unmindful of the sur¬ 
passing magnificence of their surroundings. 




IO 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


The Jungfrau saw the turquoise of the lake of 
Thun, the glowing slopes of St. Beatenberg, the 
green-black firs on the Harder. She heard a man 
sharpening his scythe among the field flowers, a 
boy yodeling to his goats in the shrubs, a herd of 
cows jingling their bells on the summer pasture. 
She smelt the mown grass, the briar hedges nipped 
by the goats, the flowers trodden by the cattle. 

But the women neither saw, nor heard, nor 
smelt. 

At noon the Jungfrau looked again. The 
grandmother was leaning for a moment on her 
hoe, the young woman worked in a crude red pet¬ 
ticoat blown by the wind, the child still played in 
the dirt. They all looked sordid, sullen, stupid. 

Then the pitying Virgin turned to Mont Blanc, 
full eighty miles away. How long must these 
wrongs be ? But, before the answer came, the day 
was over, and the women shuffled sadly homeward, 
drawing their cart after them, wherein the little 
girl sat holding tight to the sides. 

And for the millionth time the Jungfrau 
blushed, and then turned gray and slept. 

DRESS REFORM IN THE ALPS. 

The usual way to Champ^ry leads from the 
Rhone valley through vineyards, chestnut and wal¬ 
nut groves, into* the region of cherry trees and 
grazing lands. But my first visit to this Val d’ll- 
liez was made from across the mountains in Savoy. 

I had started early in the morning at Samoens, 
with a knapsack on my back. The day was hot, 


SWISS IDYLS. 


II 


even on the top of the Col de la Gottse and the Col 
de Coux. As the afternoon waned, and the Cham- 
pdry was not yet in sight, I began asking my way 
of the peasants. A young man stood by the road¬ 
side with his back towards me, and so I called: 
“ Mo?isieur , will you please tell me how much fur¬ 
ther it is to Champery ? ” At that the young man 
turned with a charming smile on his face, for he 
was a young woman. 

The trouble is, you cannot always tell the sexes 
apart in the Val d’llliez, since the women have the 
common sense and courage to wear men’s clothes, 
while at work tending cows. It is perhaps this 
which preserves their figures and keeps their 
cheeks rosy, long after the women in neighboring 
valleys are bent and faded. The trousers and 
jackets of black homespun are like those of the 
men ; so are the big hob-nailed shoes. In fact, the 
only concession to femininity is a brilliant scarlet 
handkerchief, wound round the head in an alto¬ 
gether bewitching manner. There is nothing so 
convenient as this costume, when the women ride 
up to the Alps on their ponies, to milk the cows at 
nightfall. 

Unfortunately, Champery is becoming such a 
fashionable tourist resort that the women are get¬ 
ting a little shy, and no longer go about as freely 
as they used to do, during the season. 

THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING. 

Old Reiser had been a fisherman all his life on 
the lake of Thun, and he was now over seventy. 



12 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Just because to-day happened to be the fiftieth anni¬ 
versary of his wedding was no reason for stopping 
work. Besides, lake trout were scarce and in de¬ 
mand, and his fishing permit came high. So he 
had spent the day as usual with his nets, off the 
reeds, where the Aar rushes into the lake. 

In the late afternoon Reiser rowed home, ob¬ 
liquely across, to the hamlet of Sundlauenen. It 
was only a handful of dingy chalets, built on the 
rubble which the Suldbach had brought down 
through the ages, and inhabited by a wretched, 
primitive population. As he neared, he turned his 
boat, — they always do in the Oberland,— and rode 
stern foremost under the rustic roof of his boat¬ 
house. His wife, who was watching, came to meet 
him from their cottage. 

She wore the old-fashioned bodice of the Ber¬ 
nese costume and the wide sleeves. Her face was 
puckered into weather-beaten wrinkles, her hands 
hard and callous, her gait stooping and slouchy, 
peasant-like. As she laid her hand on his arm and 
pushed him affectionately, her little old eyes were 
moist with happiness. She had said all along she 
knew they would never live to celebrate their 
golden wedding. It was an intuition, she insisted, 
but now, after all, it was such a relief to know that 
she was wrong. 

Some young ladies from the Pension at the end 
of the lake, who were fond of picnicking here, on 
the grass by the water, nicknamed the old couple 
the Duke and Duchess, — probably because their 
manners were so much finer than those of real 


SWISS IDYLS. 


13 

Dukes and Duchesses. That morning those dear 
young ladies had brought their wedding gift, she 
told him. Four pounds of sugar, two of coffee (for 
them both, you see), some cotton thread and a pa¬ 
per of pins for her. They had asked about tobacco 
for old Reiser, but she told them proudly that he 
never smoked. 

Reiser’s wife had never been farther from home 
than Berne, some twenty-five miles away, and that 
was in her youth. They had never had any chil¬ 
dren. He had fished ; she had worked in their 
vegetable patch, and woven the hemp for his nets, 
or helped him mend them. It was always a strug¬ 
gle to make both ends meet, but they had been 
really happy through it all. “And to think,” she 
repeated, as they came out after supper, “that I 
felt so sure we would never live to see this day.” * 

They sat on the bench at the side of the cottage, 
where the nets hang to dry. There was such a 
calm on the lake, they could hear people talking 
on the other shore. From the fringe of the woods 
came the smell of cyclamen. A quiet light glowed 
behind the Stockhorn, but the Niesen had already 
become a purple pyramid turning black. An elec¬ 
tric light was turned on at the Darlingen steam¬ 
boat landing, and, soon after, a star appeared over 
the shoulder of the range opposite. 

Old Rieser and his wife sat hand in hand, like 
lovers. She had brought out the Bible, as though 
it were Sunday. At intervals, she still persisted 
that she had always felt they would never live to 
see this day. 

2 


i4 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Just then a fish rose. The ripples parted slowly 
in a circle across the calm, — line after line, with¬ 
out pause, infinite, — a symbol of immortality. 

“But now I don’t care what happens,” said the 
old woman. And they went in. 

THE LANDSGEMEINDE. 

It is the 6th of May, and Sunday. The whole • 
Canton of Uri is astir. From Goeschenen to 
Fluelen the people are moving upon Altdorf, 
walking, driving, or by train. The torrent of the 
Reuss rumbles through the ravines, across the 
fodder plains, between shelving stone banks, 
straight into the lake of Luzern. There is a 
sprinkling of snow on the summit of the Bristen- 
stock; the Gitschen wears a cap of clouds in sign 
of fine weather. The grass in the orchards is 
strewn with fragrant shadows. 

Midday at Altdorf. In the market place a 
procession is forming: first militiamen, then 
magistrates, beadles in long cloaks, and voters of 
all types. A tall man in black steps into his car¬ 
riage, the soldiers salute, the drums roll. With 
that the march begins, out to the meadow of 
Botzlingen and der Gand, by the dusty highway. 

One o’clock. Two thousand voters are stand¬ 
ing in a circle on a wooden platform, with the 
tall magistrate and a clerk in the center. There 
are farmers in the ring, and monks from the 
Capuchin monastery, herders and hotel proprie¬ 
tors. Almost everybody smokes. On the out¬ 
skirts the women and children watch and wait. 


SWISS IDYLS. 


15 

Indeed, there are even some baby carriages in the 
shade, for the Landsgemeinde is the most patri¬ 
archal and immemorial assembly to be found the 
world over. 

But look, the voters bare their heads, and a 
mighty hush follows, while they repeat their Ave 
Marias, each to himself. A cuckoo calls from the 
woods of Attinghausen, somebody at the drinking 
booth laughs coarsely, the St. Gothard train 
whistles as it passes. Then the business of the 
meeting begins. 

Two o’clock. At present the discussion is 
about the new constitution. Tobacco smoke rises 
in puffs from the assembly, to disappear in the 
sunlight. The people on the hill are eating from 
lunch baskets, mostly filled with hunks of bread 
and cheese, or, for a treat, drinking from bottles 
of sour wine. Others are crowding around the 
refreshment booths, that are ranged along the 
approach to the meadow, and there they jostle 
one another awkwardly, trampling the grass in 
heavy shoes, speaking a guttural dialect. After a 
while, a vote is taken on the adoption of the con¬ 
stitution. It is done by a show of hands, but the 
assembly murmurs and bellows like a bull, while 
the clerk counts the ayes and nays. 

Three o’clock. And now, the next order of 
business is the election of officers. A beadle in 
costume of orange and black rises after each 
result, lifts his cocked hat, and wishes the new 
magistrate “health and wealth.” But the noise 
from the outskirts at times interferes with the 


!6 TRINITY SKETCHES. 

speakers, so that a policemen is sent to protest, 
and a man in his cups is marched off for resisting. 

Along the further skyline the twin mountains 
of Bauen grow dim with the increasing warmth. 
It seems as though the sun were drawing' the 
scent from spring flowers and fruit blossoms for 
no purpose, and the breeze scattering it in vain, 
since the crowd talk, and eat, and drink all un¬ 
mindful. Perhaps these two young people stand¬ 
ing by the wall, looking sheepish and saying 
nothing, feel this beauty, without knowing. 

Four o’clock. The assembly adjourns. Every¬ 
body presses blindly on to the highway, where the 
procession reforms and marches back to Altdorf, 
while many people scatter in groups to every 
country-side and valley of Canton Uri. After all, 
it is a noble thing to make your own laws, under 
God’s sky, in sight of His mountains, as your 
fathers did before you. 

Yes, this Landsgemeinde is crude,— with a 
certain primeval, Germanic uncouthness. But it 
does its work simply and openly; in the sunlight. 
It is democratic, it is the government of all men. 
Its germ can never die. 

SUMMER PASTURES. 

That morning the cattle of Meiringen sniffed 
for the free air of the mountains. After their 
winter in warm pens, they pushed forward on the 
road, bellowing and stamping the ground. Above 
the din of their bells rose the cries of the herders, 
running before and behind. A few horses went 


SWISS IDYLS. 


17 


along to carry kettles for making cheese, and 
quite a company of frightened sheep and goats 
scuttled after, driven by little boys who kept 
up an altogether senseless cracking of whips. It 
was the yearly migration of the cattle to the sum¬ 
mer pastures of the Gschwandenmad Alp. 

The train turned a corner above the Reichen- 
bach Falls. A trailing diminuendo vibrated in the 
crystal air. At times a puff of wind would renew 
the clamor for an instant, but slowly the tones of 
the bells sank into faint tinklings, the herders’ 
calls sounded muffled, and the little boys grew too 
tired to crack their whips. 

As they climbed through the woods, the men 
caught some last glimpses of the valley of Hasli, 
where, in the patchwork of the plains, young oats 
and clover stretched side by side in narrow strips. 

Whenever they passed a chalet, children would 
be there watching shyly on the steps,— tow¬ 
headed little things in patched clothes and might 
shoes. 

At last the beeches and brambles of the lower 
woods gave way to firs. There was already the 
keen tonic of the snow in the air, when lo ! at the 
head of the narrowing valley, the Alp of Gsch¬ 
wandenmad lay smiling with many thousand 
flowers. The white Wetterhorn rose on the right, 
the black Wellhorn in the middle, the glacier of 
Rosenlaui curled down to the left, and round 
about the circling forests stood sentinel. It was 
not long before the huts, deserted all winter, rang 
from within, and the cattle trampled the soft 
ground outside into mire and manure. 

2 * 


x g TRINITY SKETCHES. 

At dawn next day a herder carried milk down 
to Meiringin in a wooden hod fitted to his back. 
He wore a tight canvas jacket with short sleeves, 
leaving the arms to bronze in the sun. Where 
the path was steep, he steadied himself with an 
alpenstock. His shoes were soiled and iron shod, 
his head covered with a leather skull cap, and a 
curved pipe hung persistently from his lips. As 
he slipped, he swore. 

But in the afternoon his pack was empty, for 
everything had gone well with him ; and so, when 
he passed the chalet where Gretli lived, he could 
not help jodling from a full heart. It was a rough, 
manly outburst, re-echoing back and forth from 
the cliffs of the Engelhorner; in fact, it must have 
carried Gretli’s heart by storm, for later on when 
the girls came to the Alp for the summer festival 
of dancing and wrestling, he kept her to himself 
all day and threw his rival in the ring. 

At noon the herders used to sit down before a 
bucket-full of boiled milk. Each had a wooden 
spoon with which to dip in, the handle being 
curved into a hook, so as to hang on the edge 
of the bucket. All there was to eat was a piece of 
bread and a slice of poor cheese. They talked 
very little, and that in a surly, sing-song way, with 
the stupid stare of their cattle in their eyes ; some¬ 
times complaining of their work, for the most part 
of their poor pay ; cursing alternately the tourists, 
the heavy air of the plains, or the cold of the 
mountain nights. There was no sentimental 
mountaineering cult about them. 


SWISS IDYLS. 


19 

Making cheese was a daily task. First, they 
poured milk into a vast kettle. A little rennet 
was added to curdle the milk, and the mixture 
allowed to stand some twenty minutes. Someone 
then skimmed off the waste with a thin wooden 
shovel, and stirred the whole with a pine stick, 
bristling with the buts of the branches left on. 
This preparation was boiled, poured into a form, 
allowed to cool, and finally pressed until hard. 

At the end of the summer, when all the hay on 
the lower pastures was housed, three men climbed 
beyond the utmost limits of the timber line to the 
islets of green among the barren crags, where the 
cows cannot go. They carried their scythes upon 
the left shoulder, the little cup with the whetstone 
fastened to the waist, and their broad felt hats 
were exactly alike. As they climbed in single file, 
they made their zigzags the same length, swung 
their bodies to the same time, mounting sure¬ 
footed with a beautiful precision to the heights. 
For days they mowed in upper solitudes above the 
alpine roses, but among the gentians, and the soft 
gray felt of the edelweiss. They mowed on the 
brinks of precipices, unconcernedly. It was their 
only grace, this art of unconscious equilibrium. 

From shelving rocks fringes of silver showers 
dripped and drifted dust-like in mid air. It was 
the trickle of the melting snow. The cold wind 
sang in their ears, coming from a white winter up 
there, that never turns to spring. Clouds, in torn 
shreds floated ill-at-ease along the crags in tragic 
discontent. 


20 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


A few days later the three men carried bales of 
hay wrapped in canvas down paths hardly fit for 
goats. With that their summer’s work was over. 

As the last afternoon waned, the flowers 
quaked before the growing keenness of the wind. 
A mountain bird uttered sudden, startled notes. 
From all the pasture came the haphazard jingling 
of cow-bells, as the descending cattle advanced 
towards the hut. They stood about for awhile, 
switching their tails, while the head herder passed 
from one to the other with a bag of salt to give 
each one a handful. When one by one the cows 
had entered the stables with a last jerk of their 
bells, a thin blue line rose from the hut where the 
men were cooking their supper. Their violet veil 
of twilight hung upon the further mountains, and 
all was still, save that the torrent rumbled to 
the night. 

Next day the weather broke. 

W. D. McCrackan. 


ZU i^forg of on (gtrftef 6 Qttobcf. 


i. 

I T was late when I arrived at the Ecole des 
Beaux-Arts that morning. Usually, I am 
there early, for I like to have my easel ar¬ 
ranged before the model begins to pose. You see 
artists are so greedy. Those first in the studio 
select the best points of view, and as for the poor 
fools who come afterwards — ma foi ! they have to 
put up with what they can find. Yes, I was very 
late ; indeed it was after eleven when I rushed up 
the great staircase and entered the long, brilliantly 
lighted room. 

The confusion which at once met my eyes was 
bewildering. Instead of being quietly at work, I 
found every man in the studio had left his easel 
and was talking in the greatest excitement to him¬ 
self or to his neighbor. On all sides, disorder pre¬ 
vailed. Palettes, paints, brushes, were scattered 
about on the floor in a confusion which made me 
shudder. Jean Janois was even knocking over an 
easel as he ran across the floor with a glass of 
water in his hand. 

“ Has a whirlwind struck these mad artists or 
what is the matter ? ” I asked myself, not under- 



22 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


standing at all. Suddenly, however, I happened 
to glance at the model’s platform and everything 
was explained. The model had fainted away. 

“It is terrible — exasperating,” Sebastien cried 
with a shrug as he saw me. “She is the most 
wonderful model we have ever had and now she 
faints ! Bah ! women should never pose ! ” 

“ She may not be used to it,” I answered care¬ 
lessly. I could not withdraw my eyes from the 
beautiful, deathlike face. 

“ Very evidently she is not,” sneered Sebastien. 

“Will some of you men cease to jabber and 
come and help me ? ” exclaimed Jean Janois as he 
bent down and pressed the water to the model’s 
lips, while the woman attendant rubbed her life¬ 
less hands. 

I seized a large fan and went with it to the 
platform, but Jean Janois took it from me. He 
insisted on fanning her himself, and he arranged 
the thick drapery which had been thrown over her 
prostrate form, for it was chilly. 

“ She is my model,” continued Sebastien, when 
I came back. “ You can thank me for discover¬ 
ing the most beautiful woman in the world ! Yes, 
I found her and I was determined to paint her. 
She is very poor and wanted the money. 

“ Did you say that she is married ? ” asked a 
little man who stood near us. 

“Yes. The husband is dying. Starvation, I 
imagine. She was glad enough to sign my papers, 
for it meant bread, perhaps life, to the man she 
loved. You see she didn’t know she must pose 
nude.” 


THE STORY OP AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


23 

“ Didn’t know ? ” asked the little man, amazed. 

“ And I did not tell her. I had the papers, and 
people are so foolish ! When will they get over 
their absurd prejudices and learn to sacrifice 
notions for art ? ” 

Sebastien left us and strode over to Jean Janois. 
He was impatient for the model to revive, in order 
that he might go on with his work. 

“ You should have been here before ! ” declared 
Ivan Isilei, a young Russian painter, coming up 
to me. “ Ah, but she was superb ! magnificent! 
I never saw such a form ! such features ! But she 
seemed most unhappy, and I could not understand 
why. That expression — a look of agony — see, 
Sebastien has caught it. Sebastien is doing fine 
work to-day.” 

The Russian’s chatter might have continued 
much longer, but at that moment the model, mov¬ 
ing slightly, opened her eyes and a hum of delight 
went through the studio. As for me, I stood like 
one transfixed, rooted to the spot. In all my life I 
never had beheld such beauty. In all my life I 
never had seen such hopeless despair. She seemed 
like some pure spirit who was vainly seeking to 
escape from torture. The warm blood rushed to 
my face as I thought indignantly of Sebastien’s 
contemptible conduct in deceiving this delicate, 
sensitive creature. In her frightened look and 
helpless attitude, 1 read the anguish and suffering 
she must have endured before her strength had 
finally failed her ; the effort which such a sacrifice 
must have cost one who was so manifestly proud 
and womanly. 


24 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“ What ? ” cried Sebastien fiercely, interrupting 
my reflections. “ Does she refuse to pose longer ? 
Does she dare to refuse ? ” 

“ She’s not the ordinary kind,” explained the 
attendant, who was a rough, uncouth woman, 
“and you know, monsieur, that she had a bad 
turn — a very bad turn.” 

Jean Janois was helping the model to rise, and 
Sebastien stood before him like a lion, his power¬ 
ful frame trembling with anger. Sebastien is a 
large man. 

“You are breaking your promise — the agree¬ 
ment which you signed yourself, woman ! ” he 
said, not heeding the attendant— “ and I tell you, 
if you dare to do such a thing, not one sou shall 
you receive for your pains. You can go back to 
your dying husband and tell him where you have 
been, but-” 

“ Oh, heaven help me ! ” the woman whispered 
in despair, standing erect, as she pulled the soft 
white drapery tightly about her, and looked in 
every direction for some escape. 

I started forward without waiting another in¬ 
stant. Directly behind the platform was a door 
which led to the dressing room. Quickly opening 
this, I made signs to the attendant, who at once 
understanding my purpose, led her out without a 
word. 

When I came back to the studio, Sebastien was 
walking up and down like a lunatic. Ma foi , how 
his eyes blazed ! I joined a group of men who 
stood admiring the full-length, life-size sketch on 
his easel. 


THE STORY OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


2 5 

“ A marvelous beginning ! ” said one. “ He 
has worked this morning as though inspired. 
What a pity he could not have finished ! ” 

“ It would have been cruelty. She was almost 
killed as it was. But what a magnificent head ! ” 

“ She might pose for Venus,” the little man 
declared enthusiastically, as he gazed at the half- 
finished canvas. 

Sebastien joined us. 

“ By heavens, she shall not get off so easily ! ” 
he declared, “ I will paint that woman if I have to 
drag her here again. I will tell her that her 
effeminate husband shall learn of her little esca¬ 
pade, and that will probably bring her.” 

“ But — did not the husband know ? ” 

“I should rather think not. There was some 
sentimental nonsense, and she made me promise 
he should be kept in ignorance. But if worse 
comes to worse,” continued the man, “ perhaps 
each of you will let me have his sketch. I could 
do something in that way, for I’m bound to paint 
her ! — and now I suppose we must hunt for 
another model.” 

“ Find one who does not faint, this time,” 
laughed Ivan Isilei. I was disgusted at Sebastien, 
and so was Jean Janois. He put his arm through 
mine and we left the studio. 

Two days afterward I found out where she 
lived. Sebastien had told Jean Janois, and the 
latter came and took me off to an out-of-the-way 
corner of Paris, to investigate the case, for we 
were both interested. 

3 


26 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“ If she is really in want, it should be seen to,” 
he had said, and I agreed with him. 

The house was in a dark, narrow street, and it, 
too, looked very dark and narrow as we entered. 
One thing about it was bright, however, and that 
was the hostess. She was a short, stout woman, 
with a red, shining face, and much false hair. We 
found her washing windows, and she dropped her 
towel quickly as she turned and saw we had been 
admitted. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Jean Janois with a 
slight cough. 

“ Pray, what may I do for you, messieurs ? ” she 
asked, as Jean hesitated. 

“We wish to render some assistance to a poor 
lady, who, we are told, lives here and whose hus¬ 
band is ill.” 

“ Ah, del , but you do come too late ! ” she cried 
with an engaging smile. “ Madame and her hus¬ 
band are gone. They left yesterday, and I hope 
by this time they are both feeling better, poor 
things.” 

“ What! Gone ? Left Paris ? ” I asked, stupe¬ 
fied. 

“ Yes, left Paris ! You see monsieur had a let¬ 
ter which brought good fortune — and by this time 
I dare say they are far away, under the skies of 
Italy. Ah me ! I was in Italy once — when I was 
young.” 

“ But we heard that he was dying ? ” declared 
Jean Janois. 

“ And he will die sometime, poor monsieur ! ” 
she answered softly, wiping her eyes. 


THE STORY OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


27 


“ Madame and her husband were very poor ? ” 

“Ah, yes!” she said, while she settled her¬ 
self as a woman does who enjoys the prospect of 
telling a sad story. 

“ You see,” she continued, “ monsieur was Eng¬ 
lish, and madame — was an angel! monsieur’s 
family objected to the match. You see, monsieur’s 
family in England are very fine, and madame, 
though so good, is poor. They have been here six 
months and monsieur has grown weaker every 
day. Consumption, you see. I’m sure, if care and 
devotion could do anything, monsieur should get 
well, for in all that time madame has never left 
him once —till the other day.” 

Here the hostess paused a moment, for she was 
scant of breath. “ The other day,” she went on, 
“ madame came to me early in the morning with a 
happy face. ‘ I’m going to win us good fortune,’ 
she said, and then she told me how the doctor had 
declared that the only way to save monsieur’s life 
was to go South. How she had been in despair 
when she had heard this ; how happy she was now 
since she had found a way to bring it about. 
Would I stay with monsieur ? Of course I would. 
‘ It is so hard to leave Jack,’ she said, monsieur is 
Jack, you see, but I promised to take good care of 
him and so she went. While she was gone the 
letter came. It brought sunshine back to mon¬ 
sieur’s pale face. For the first time in weeks he 
was getting up to dress, when all at once madame 
came back. Ah, messieurs, I never saw such a 
wretched woman. Changed ? She was twenty 


28 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


years older! When I opened the door, she fell 
into my arms, and she dared not go to monsieur 
for some time. Neither he nor I ever found out 
what the trouble was. The letter put all other 
thoughts out of his mind, you see, and — yes, they 
went yesterday. They have promised to write to 
me,” — 

“ Then we can do nothing to help them ? ” 
asked Jean Janois regretfully. 

“ I think not. Do you know you are the second 
here to-day, to enquire for madame ? Another 
gentleman came this morning. He was really 
angry, and would not believe me at first when I 
said they were gone.” 

“ Was he very tall — very large ? ” I enquired. 

“Yes, very. He quite frightened me,” she 
declared with a shrug. 

“ It-was Sebastien,” said Jean Janois. 

II. 

Springtime in Paris. Where is the spring 
more gay ? The brilliant sky, the laughing 
crowds, the flowers, and best of all — best for me 
— the Salon. 

Jean Janois had his arm in mine as we made 
our way through the throng and looked at the long 
lines of pictures. We had been here for hours and 
could not get away. There is a fascination about 
the opening day which I never can outlive. It is 
the great holiday for artists, and certainly all Paris 
seems to enjoy it as much as we do. First one 


THE STORY OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


2 9 


man, then another, had begged us to come and see 
where his picture was hung. Of course, nobody 
was satisfied with the hanging—I say nobody, 
but I am wrong. Sebastien was thoroughly satis¬ 
fied. He had obtained the Prix de Rome and his 
picture was in the place of honor. 

“ What is the matter ? ” I asked surprised, when 
suddenly Jean Janois gave my arm a terrible pinch. 

“ See ! see ! he whispered excitedly, pointing 
through the crowd, “ It is —oh, it is ! ” 

“ Are you insane ? ” I inquired, laughing, but 
looking in the direction he had pointed, I instantly 
became grave. Not six feet from us, a lady and 
gentleman were standing, gazing with fixed atten¬ 
tion at an Eastern picture by Gdrome. The pallid 
face of the man told of weariness and ill health, 
but he stood erect and smiled in light-hearted en¬ 
joyment as he listened to his wife’s quiet words. 
And the wife ? Could that beautiful woman, so 
quietly but elegantly dressed, whose every move¬ 
ment breathed a soft refinement, be our model ? 
It certainly was, and both Jean J anois and I shud¬ 
dered as we thought of the terrible meaning of her 
presence. 

“ How can we get them away ? ” I whispered, 
conscious that something must be done. 

“ There is the chance that they may not see,” 
said Jean. 

“ But they will see if they stay.” 

As I spoke, the fair-faced Englishman looked 
down at his wife. We were so near I could not 
help listening to their conversation. 

3 * 


3 ° 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“Why is it, Marie, that you do not care to look 
at pictures any more ? ” he was saying in a low 
voice. 

“ And why is it that you think I do not ? ” 

“You really did not care to come to-day — 
confess. ” 

“ I shall confess nothing. If you enjoy it, you 
know I do.” 

“ Ah ! Marie, I believe you would do anything 
for me — you never think of yourself. Do you 
know,” he went on, smiling, “ I feel better already 
since we have come back to Paris. I am a differ¬ 
ent man to-day. I shall soon be well, Marie, don’t 
you think I shall, dear ? ” 

They began to move slowly down the room. 
Jean Janois and I followed them. 

v “ See ! ” said the Englishman, suddenly turn¬ 
ing “ what is all that crowd doing over there ? By 
Jove, Marie, we must go and see. It is probably 
the gem of the collection, or it wouldn’t attract so 
many people. And we had almost missed it — 
come.” 

I looked at Jean Janois in terror. He actually 
turned pale. Before we had time to think further 
or seek some means of stopping them, both had 
been lost from us in the crowd. 

A curious murmur seemed to rise soon after¬ 
wards, and I saw the tall Englishman and his wife 
slowly making their way through the surprised 
throng, unobservant of the strange attention they 
were attracting. 

“ What are they doing ? Oh, what will hap- 


THE STORY OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


31 


pen?” I cry in agony to Jean Janois. Then I 
leap through the crowd, pushing my way like a 
madman, not heeding how I go, but only intent on 
preventing, if possible, the calamity which seems 
so near. Men stare, women remonstrate, children 
cry, but I care not. I only dash on with the wild, 
unreasoning hope of snatching the pair in front of 
me from a terrible revelation, but I am too late. 
Even as I stretch out my hand to draw him back, 
the man raises his eyes and sees. 

A vision, so fair, so beautiful that one might 
truly say, it is a spirit too pure for this rough 
world, is on the wall before us. The portrait of 
the woman who stands, perfectly nude, looking 
down upon the throng, is a wonderful production 
of art. Its beauty is enchanting, dazzling. The 
face seems to breathe forth radiance, and yet, in 
the proud turn of the head, the piercing eyes, one 
can almost read a silent appeal for pity. Certainly 
Sebastien has done his work well, and merits the 
praise he is receiving on all sides. His picture is 
true to the life, cruelly true, for every one here 
can see its counterpart. 

Shall I ever forget that cry ? It is so faint that 
it scarcely reaches my ears, yet it is so full of 
meaning it thrills every fibre of my body. Anguish, 
reproach, despair, seem rending a man’s heart in 
shreds, and the broken words which come with 
the cry do not speak half so plainly. 

“ A man has fallen senseless ! ” soon I hear a 
woman call out, but I am almost too dazed to heed 
her. 


32 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“ Water ! air ! Oh, see his poor wife ! ” declares 
another. 

In the awe-stricken silence, I look down at the 
white face of the man before me. His eyes are 
closed, his hands relaxed, and with horror I see a 
bright stream issuing from his mouth. 

“Oh, Jack! Jack!” sobs Marie, kneeling at 
his side. “ Only hear me, Jack, hear me ! It was 
for you, Jack, for you ! Oh, darling, darling, say 
you hear, it was all for you — ” 

The eyes open for a moment, and seem to 
smile. Then all is still ; and the desolate woman 
who waits so long and silently for an answer, can 
only guess that he has heard. 

Sunshine and shadow, shadow and sunshine,— 
continually they chase each other across our lives, 
and leave them never wholly colorless. However 
sad the changing drama we call life may be, how¬ 
ever vivid the memory of a great and lasting sor¬ 
row, there still is here and there a gleam of cheer 
which brings a short forgetfulness. 

Jean Janois and I have been sketching in 
Bretigny this summer. To-day, as we were draw¬ 
ing the moss-covered towers of an old convent, a 
crowd of little charity children playing in the 
court came to look over our shoulders. Suddenly, 
the convent door opened, and the figure of a nun 
appeared on the threshold. As I looked, the chil¬ 
dren left us, and ran joyfully towards her. 

“ Come, oh come, ma soeur, and see the pic¬ 
tures ! ” they cried, laughing as they nestled in 
her black gown. 


THE STORY OF AN ARTIST’S MODEL. 


33 


The grave, sweet face looked down upon the 
eager little ones and gave them a sad, lingering 
smile ; then gently but quickly drawing them 
within, she disappeared in silence. 

Jean Janois and I looked at the closed door, 
Speechless for a whole minute. 

“ You think Sister Maria is very beautiful, don’t 
you ? ” asked a bright-eyed boy, close at my elbow. 

“Very,” I answered, as soon as I could speak. 

“So do I — so do we all. We love her!” he 
announced, smiling as he gazed curiously into our 
astonished faces. 

J ean J anois returned his smile, and I grasped 
the little fellow by the hand. 

As he turned and ran across the courtyard, I 
saw tears in Jean’s eyes. 

“ Did you recognize her, too ? ” I asked. 

Reuel Crompton Tuttle. 


•Wtfft Qpoef’e <Bge6. 


A ND though the poet was one of that noisy 
band of travelers that had sought shelter 
at the inn for the night, yet he differed 
from each and all, for he was a man who saw life 
not as we see it, and, being a poet, looked he not v 
with poet’s eyes ? 

The snug room of the inn with its roaring fire 
seemed cheerful, as the wind and rain played 
havoc at the window casements, while, in sharp 
contrast to the low hum of voices, came ever and 
anon the snapping of some tree’s branch in the 
court, or a strange creaking sound as the sign of 
the “White Horse” swung to and fro on its rusted 
hinges. The candles burned dim, but the fire was 
bright, and when one piled fresh logs upon the 
hearth, and the flames leaped up and lighted all 
the room, the poet drew aside from the circle of 
wayfarers gathered round their mugs of ale, and 
sat gazing upon the flames, thinking, for he was a 
meditative man. And as he looked intently at the 
blaze, and marked how the seething flames thrust 
out long red arms that encircled every piece of the 
wood, he saw a small log and a large log, from the 
same tree, lying together apart from the rest. 




WITH POET’S EYES. 


35 

And when the flames reached them he noticed 
that the large log burned quickly, and turned to 
ashes, but the smaller one resisted and was slower 
in consuming, yet it was also burned to ashes, at 
the last. 

Now the poet thought within himself of this, 
and it seemed to him that the flame of the fire was 
the flame of life, and that a drama had been played 
out before his eyes. As he sat he mused upon the 
thing, and musing spoke, while his companions 
drew near that they might catch his words, for he 
was of repute amongst them all. And the poet 
told his tale, and said:— 

“Would that we could see return to us those 
days of good Queen Bess who ruled our land so 
wisely and so well,— those days of chivalry, when 
life and love were free, when bravery was its own 
reward, and stainless honor ruled in the hearts of 
men ! But the past is past! Now in those days, 
those golden days of which I speak, there lived a 
sailor lad, brave and true as is every British sailor; 
and beneath his coat, his blue coat with its rows of 
shining buttons, there was a heart that throbbed 
with love for that dear country, his own native 
land. And he longed for the coming time when 
he could fight for her causes as for his causes, and 
defend her honor as his own. 

“The sailor was but a boy, yet he loved with 
all the love of his boyish heart a maiden whom he 
had known since the time, when years ago they 
wandered through the dales of his dear home, 
hand clasped in hand. Nor did he love and woo 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


36 

her in vain, for she gave her heart to him, and 
joyfully she thought of her bonnie laddie who in 
years to come would be her shield and stay, and 
locked in whose protecting arms every grief could 
be conquered and every fear defied. 

“But happiness must have an end and the 
sailor must face the stormy sea, and far from home, 
and far from her whom he loved, must he fight 
his country’s battles till he could return again. 
Yet ever in dreams would his spirit fly to the little 
low-roofed cottage and linger with the loved ones 
there. And the maiden left alone would pray to 
the God above, that His watchful care might ever 
surround her laddie, ’till he could come to her 
from his wanderings on the sea. But why did the 
God of love not hear her prayer, or, hearing, fail to 
grant it? We cannot say—time rules us all, and 
fate is fate! 

“Deep down beneath the waves of the stormy 
northern sea he found a grave. For three long 
centuries have the winds dashed into whitened 
foam the waters that surge above his breast. 
While far from where he lies, far off in dear old 
England, the land he loved so well, in the years 
that came they laid to rest in a quiet churchyard 
a gray-haired woman. Wearied and worn with 
watching she sleeps with a peaceful smile upon 
her face, awaiting the time when love shall meet 
with love again. 

“’Tis a simple tale, my friends, and one of 
years long gone,” the poet said, “but bear in mind 
that hearts were truly hearts and faithful love was 
faithful love three centuries ago.” 


WITH POET’S EYES. 


37 


The poet, having spoken, turned and looked 
upon his friends, but one was gone, and another 
was not listening, and still another drowsed. So 
he turned once more to the fire and pondered 
with himself why they had shown no interest in 
his tale. It was too long, the poet thought, or 
mayhap it was too short, or yet because it hap¬ 
pened so many, many years ago they felt no interest 
in it. Thus mused the poet with himself, for he was 
a man who saw life not as we see it, and being a 
poet, looked he not with poet’s eyes ? 

Ah, foolish man, ’twas not that thy tale was 
long or that thy tale was short; ’twas not that it 
spoke of men and times now passed, nay, not for 
these things did men fail to hear thee, or hearing, 
gave no thought! Hadst thou but spoken to them 
of false and fickle vows, of broken hearts that 
mend themselves, and love that dies and lives, and 
dies and lives again, thou mightest have made thy 
tale full twice as long, and men would still have 
listened and even begged for more. Humanity 
you know not, nor ever can, while you hold to 
your simple views of a simple life. ’Tis not the 
dove which, tame, feeds from the hands and builds 
its nest and rears its young in quiet and secluded 
spots, it is the vulture which, with loud cries and 
hoarse shrieks of satisfaction, swoops down upon 
the carrion only and claws it with its horrid talons, 
and tears it with its sharpened beak, and is not 
content until it lays bare a rotting and putrid 
heart. 

Oh, gentle-minded poet, such is the world you 
live in, such are the men you meet! 

4 


38 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Yet the poet thought not thus, but while the 
wind still drove the rain against the casement, and 
the huge trees in the court still swayed and tossed 
their creaking branches, he sat by the dying glow 
of the fire musing as ever, and blaming himself 
that the tale had been too long, and the time and 
place too far away. 


David Willard. 


Ct>et ffle Coffee Cups. 

A FARCE. 


Scene .— The breakfast table. 

Dramatis Personce :— 

Paul. — An only son — away at college. 

Charles. — Paul's father comfortable , complaisant ; 
coffee cuf in one hand , newspaper in the other ; head bald 
as a billiard ball and gilded in patches by the sun shin¬ 
ing through geraniums. 

Edith. — Paul's little cross-eyed sister with a yellow 
pig-tail; sullenly eating a big plate of oat-meal , which 
she abominates with an utter abomination. 

Aunt Sue. — A grimly conscientious lady who was 
never young and whose milk of human kindness — she 
would indignantly deny it — is diluted. Her only real 
pleasures lie in visiting the Chamber of Horrors and 
reading the Old Testament. Estimable woman! She 
takes the place of a mother to the children , and is sitting 
at the head of the table among shining urns. 

Grandpa. — Deaf. 

Waitress. 

Curtain Rises. 


A UNT Sue (in agitated falsetto') — Charles, 
Charles, do put up that paper and attend 
to breakfast. You make it so hard for the 
servant, and she's always complaining about it to 
me. Come, don’t be so disagreeable. 




40 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Charles (absently and thoroughly absorbed in the 
paper) — Yes, dear, yes, dear. 

Aunt Sue. — Edith, if you can’t sit up any 
straighter Janet will get you a sofa pillow. There, 
that will do ! I can’t allow my little girl to lounge 
at the table. 

Edith ( sulkily ) — Please gimmy a fried cate ! 

Aunt Sue. — No, Edith, I don’t approve of 
greasy fried cakes ( helping herself to one) for chil¬ 
dren. Grown-up people can eat with perfect pro¬ 
priety what would be very injurious to little girls. 

Edith ( with a sob) — Please gimmy a biscuit! 

Aunt Sue ( wearily ) — Edith, you make it very 
hard for me. If my little girl wants to suffer 
agonies from indigestion after she becomes a young 
lady, why (in sudden passion) just take a hot biscuit! 
Take it! Take it and make yourself sick ! Make 
me sit up with you all night! — Me an invalid! 
(Calmly) — You can’t have a thing till you stop 
your snivelling. 

(Waitress enters with a letter for “ Charles Endi- 
cott , Esq.f and lays it by his plate. 

Charles ( buried in newspaper) — Humph! 
(glances at envelope) Ha! (reads): “If not called 
for in three days return to Dr. Hogg, President of 
Suspension College.” (Drops newspaper?) Why, its 
about Paul! I hope he hasn’t been doing any¬ 
thing. 

Aunt Sue (with stinging sarcasm) — Doing any¬ 
thing ! Of course he hasn’t been doing anything ! 
I wonder that you send him to college, Charles. 
I know he’s only flinging his time away with evil 


OVER THE COFFEE CUPS. 


41 


associates and learning wicked habits, and if I 
only had my way - 

Edith ( thrusting her devoted head between the open 
jaws of a lioness ) — Paul is a good boy ! He is not 
wicked ! And I love him ! 

Aunt Sue. — Let me hear another word from 
you , and you go upstairs to bed ! 

(Charles dashes letter to the table with a slam j cloth 
becomes a morass of coffee. When silence. 

Charles. — I am bitterly disappointed in that 
boy, bitterly disappointed. He has been sus¬ 
pended from college — a son of mine!—and is 
coming home. 

Aunt Sue. — Well, I hope you’re satisfied now ! 
I always said so ! I always expected something of 
the kind—always! Am surprised that it didn’t 
happen long ago ! If I were you I’d just shut the 
door in- 

Grandpa (deaf as an adder but wiser) — Charles, 
the sooner you buy that boy a shovel and wheel¬ 
barrow and set him to work, the better! 

Edith (passionately) — Paul isn't wasting his op¬ 
portunities and he shan't go to work ! 

Aunt Sue. — Edith Endicott, look me straight 
in the face! 

(Dead silence j clock ticks patiently; exit Edith 
from the room in tears. 

Aunt Sue. — There now! This has brought 
on my palpitation again. (Icily) — Oh no, it’s of no 
consequence, Charles, none in the least. No, I 
shall not have the doctor! Charles Endicott, if 
you send up the doctor I shall refuse to see him! 

4* 




42 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


I shall suffer patiently and in silence, as I always 
do. Oh, certainly, you were perfectly right! You 
kept right on indulging him, and pampering him, 
and letting him fritter money away. I thought 
sure you wanted to see him come home disgraced ! 
Women don’t know anything about bringing up 
children! Don’t you think it’s about time you 
took my advice for once? Don’t you think it’s 
about time you pulled Paul up short like an omni¬ 
bus horse, and made him work ? Don’t you think 
that a little firmness, a little severity, before it’s 
too late — ga, ga. ( Looks toward the door with eyes of 
agate. Collapses i) 

Enter Paul clad in a little London hat, the sublitne 
airiness of whose pose is just short of the miraculous, a 
coat that was apparently constructed for the Siamese 
Twins, wicked looking gaiters, and a wreathing smile. 
He staggers under the iveight of a dress-suit case, gun 
case, racquet case, walking sticks, etc., and leads a little 
sporting terrier by a string. 

Charles stands pawing the ground like an angry 
bull who has sighted a red rag — then bursts forth : 

By Jupiter, I’ll go for you! I’ll — ugh! ugh! 

ugh !-ugh ! ugh ! ugh !-ugh! ugh ! ugh ! 

(chokes in a fit of coughing .) 

Grandpa.— What a shocking overcoat he’s got 
on, Charles! Thoroughly Bowery! I hope its 
paid for. 

Charles. — I hope it is ! ( To Paul, who is about 

to speak ) — Don’t you dare to interrupt me, sir ! 
Don’t you open your mouth ! So you have come 
back here with your shame, have you, in the dress 


OVER THE COFFEE CUPS. 


43 


of a gambler, and the character of one. Do you 
realize, sir, that I’d rather see you come home 
in your coffin than like this! Suspended from 
college ! ( Snorts ) — Do you know what that means ? 
So do I —I went to college once myself—hold 
your tongue ! It means that you have been drag¬ 
ging your name and mine through every gin shop 
and den of vice in the city and squandering your 
money with low people, and by George, sir, it 
makes me want to think I never had a son. Go to 
your room. 

Edith. (Clattering doivn stairs and across the 
hall) — O — o ! Oh, Paul! you dear thing ! (hugs 
him) O — e ! 

(Curtain.) 

Lucian Waterman Rogers. 


(&mtee. 

[Reprinted from Short Stories.] 


September if, iypj. 


La Force. 


M Y Dear Eugene, you would be grieved if you 
could see me now as I sit writing to you 
by the dim light of a feeble candle. 

Does it shock you this heading of mine that 
stares so boldly in your startled eyes from the top 
of the page ? Does it say that I am disgraced, 
and do you believe it ? If so, pardon me for the 
sake of old times and old friendships. But in the 
old times the King ruled, and we sang “O Rich¬ 
ard, O mon Roi! ” but now the people gone mad 
must have their say and we must suffer and en¬ 
dure and listen to the people sing “Ca Ira.” 

You would ask how came I here. When I 
have answered, you will say, what a fool to have 
gone back. Just so. Yet listen. 

You know that when the rest of us fled my 
brother remained behind. He had done much for 
the people and trusted to their gratitude. You 
cry out, “ How foolish ! ” Exactly. He thought 
they would not harm him. He was mistaken. 
They would have torn a dog to pieces if it had 
borne my name. 




AMIEE. 


45 

They seized and condemned him to death. I 
heard of his imprisonment and went back to save 
him. It was unjust that he should suffer for my 
sins. I came too late. From a sheltering door¬ 
step I saw the mad mob rush past me and in their 
midst, on a pike held high in the air, was my 
brother’s head. I tried to get across the frontier 
and escape, hiding in the woods and under dung¬ 
hills by day, and dragging myself along the road 
by night, living on refuse that the dogs would not 
eat. In vain. I was discovered by a vile ditch- 
digger from Rouen, who, meeting me on the road, 
recognized me, and, urged to patriotism by the re¬ 
membrance of what he was pleased to call his 
daughter’s wrongs, he betakes himself to the vil¬ 
lage and reports his discovery, and so this worthy 
patriot, with a score of equally worthy patriots, lie 
in wait and seize me as I stagger wearily along. 

The peasants have become virtuous, my 
friends, or desire to appear so, and have tenacious 
memories for former trifles that were better for¬ 
gotten. A strange time is this when the cattle are 
become hypocrites and we nobles in sackcloth and 
ashes pose for martyrs. 

They placed me in charge of an escort armed 
with pikes and old muskets, and sent me off to 
Paris to the court of condemnation. I could tell 
you of things that I saw en route that would make 
your blood run cold, but I spare you. And yet, 
this word of warning. If you value your heads 
keep away from here, for the people are gone mad, 
and our blood flows freer in the present than ever 
did our wine in the past. 


4 6 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


To make a long story short, we reached Paris 
the next morning, and my trial came off without 
delay. When my worthy friend, the patriot from 
Rouen, told how he knew me and ended up his re¬ 
marks with a burst of tears, it was all over with 
me. The galleries howled and stormed: “ Down 
Lamoutte, Down ! To the guillotine, Lamoutte ! ” 
You should have heard them ! 

The judge rang his bell and the jurors voted 
separately, and at every vote the galleries roared 
anew. Decreed in the name of the Republic one and in¬ 
divisible : — The prisoner is an enemy of the People . 
Back to La Force with him , and death within the 
week. 

Cattle ! 

Picture to yourself a long, low hall with hard 
wooden benches nailed to the stone walls, long, 
narrow windows with great iron gratings, hardly 
admitting a ray of light. This is our prison — I 
say ours, for there are some six score of us to¬ 
gether. Fair-haired girls and grandmothers, 
courtiers, nobles, waiting to look out of the little 
window. 

The whole company rose and bowed to me as 
the jailor thrust me into the room, and a tall, ele¬ 
gantly formed man, with white hair and face like a 
Greek philosopher, stepped forward. 

“ May I ask,” said he, bowing most courteously, 
“to what cause we owe the pleasure of your com¬ 
pany? ” 

“The Republic is displeased with its humble 
servant.” 

He smiled quietly. “It is a breach of good 


AMIEE. 


47 


manners that needs correcting; we are all, I fear, 
sufferers from the same rudeness,” was his com¬ 
ment. There was a laugh. He then asked my 
name and condition, with the remark that it would 
be rude made elsewhere, but the time and place 
permitted it. My reply was evidently satisfactory, 
for he turned to the others and said: 

“This gentleman, the Marquis of Lamoutte, 
has had the good fortune to be sent among us for 
a short time, and I hope you will all strive to 
make his stay as pleasant as possible. And you, 
Monsieur, will, I hope, take part in all of our gay- 
eties and be cheerful and entertaining, forgetting 
your own misfortunes and striving to make others 
forget theirs. This is the only duty required of 
you.” He then took me by the hand and led me 
around the circle, introducing me to all in the 
room. 

What astonished me most was the perfect com¬ 
posure and even gayety pervading all their actions. 
I hardly noticed an anxious look or a nervous 
movement among them, yet like myself they are 
all condemned to death. 

There is one person to whom I am quite at¬ 
tracted, a sweet young girl of some twenty years, 
with long, brown hair and very dark blue eyes. I 
imagine I hear you laugh. “ Up to the old tricks 
again,” you say. You are mistaken. This is not 
the time nor place. Man goes to his death better 
than he goes through life. 

September 18th. 

Our life here is a constant round of theatrical 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


48 

entertainments, readings, game playing, and even 
dancing. Anything to make the time pass quickly, 
and keep our minds from the thoughts of what the 
future has in store for us all. Last night we had 
a little play written by Madame Duron, which was 
well presented by the Dramatic Club. You would 
be surprised to have seen how well the parts were 
taken. We are to have another performance to¬ 
night. If it were not for the gloomy surroundings, 
wooden benches, and cold stone walls, with their 
little windows, you would think to see us that we 
were attending a levee at the Tuilleries. Our 
clothes are somewhat in need of repairing and 
brushing, but our manners are, as ever, au fait. 

The Count and I have become quite friendly 
since he took me in charge yesterday. He com¬ 
manded the French Guard at the palace on the 
10th of August — his accounts of the affair are 
most interesting. I asked him, if, in his opinion, 
the King could have crushed the revolution if he 
had placed himself at the head of the Swiss and 
other faithful troops. He shook his head. “ It 
might have been ; there was every chance of it 
succeeding. Even if the King had trusted Du- 
mouriez, all would have been well, but the King 
was weak, pitifully weak. Poor Louis, he was an 
honest man, but the hand of fate was against him. 
There was nought for him but to die as a King 
should.” 

“I cannot see,” I said, “how you bear yourself 
so calmly amid such scenes as these about us, for 
you always appear gay as if there was nought but 



AMIEE. 


49 


happiness in the world.” He looked at me keenly, 
and an amused smile lighted up his features. 

“ My dear Marquis,” he said, placing his arm in 
mine, as we began to walk toward the end of the 
room. “A man should forget himself in times 
like these, and live only for others. I have faced 
death too often in the service of my king to fear 
it now when I am in the service of my fellowmen. 
There are frail girls and weak women here, and I 
strive to make them forget there is such a thing as 
to-morrow, but teach them to live only in the 
present. And they are willing to laugh at any¬ 
thing, that they may forget to weep.” He is a true 
and noble man, this Count; if I were a Christian I 
would say “ God bless him.” 

After the play last night I danced the minuet 
with the little girl I spoke of in yesterday’s entry. 
Her name is Amiee Dumont, and she is of Prov¬ 
ence. 

“Monsieur,” she said, when we had taken our 
place for the dance, “you are from Provence, are 
you not?” “I have that pleasure,” I replied. 
“ And may I ask if you are a relation of Richard 
Lamoutte ? ” “We are one and the same person.” 
Her eyes met mine and I saw in them a look 
almost of hate, and certainly full of scorn. She 
lowered them immediately, and said sarcastically, 
“I have heard of you before.” “You might add 
that you have never heard any good of me; that 
would have been nearer what you really meant.” 
“ I have heard, Monsieur, that you took advantage 
of the laws — and that only recently. It was a 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


5° 


t 


cruel thing to do and one that has caused much 
bloodshed and hatred in this poor country.” 

She had continued to keep her eyes upon the 
floor, but suddenly looking up into my face added, 
“I hope they slandered you, Monsieur.” I meant 
to say they did, but those deep eyes fixed full upon 
me, made me hesitate. “ Alas, Mademoiselle, it is 
but too true.” “And did you tell the starving 
people who came to you, that you cared not 
whether they lived or died as long as they payed 
the tattle j I heard this told of you, too.” I had re¬ 
covered myself somewhat, and answered meekly 
as if I were one bitterly wronged : 

“ In that, they slandered me. I was sorry to 
see them dying, but what could I do ? They hated 
and would not trust me; I did all in my power, 
and yet they would have torn me to pieces last 
year had I not escaped.” 

She folded her hands before her, and leaned 
forward with upturned face as if interested. 
“ Why, then, did you return if you were in safety ? ” 
she asked. 

My voice trembled at the memory of that 
dreadful scene at Rouen, and she noticed it, for 
she looked at me as if astonished at my show of 
feeling, and her face seemed kindlier. 

“ I had a brother who was in their hands. I 
came back to save him, to give myself if need 
be to their vengeance if they would spare him.” 
“And you saw him?” “He was dead, Madem¬ 
oiselle, I had come too late.” 

Just then the dancing began, but I noticed that 


AMIEE. 


51 

she kept glancing at me continually throughout 
the dance. After we had finished she bade me 
good night without another word, and went down 
to the other end of the corridor, singing the old 
royalist refrain, “O Richard, O mon Roi, l’un- 
iverse ’ti abandonne.” 

September 20th. 

O sleep, thou that comest to us all in the silence 
of the night, bearing to the heart weary of toil 
and of vain struggles a certain rest and quiet from 
daily temptations, thou that art a sign and promise 
of a deeper and everlasting peace that shall be 
ours when the curtain falls upon the comedy of 
our vanity and folly, how hast thou betrayed me ? 
Through all the night hast thou been summoning 
before me the phantoms of past misdeeds, and 
hast awaked to resurrection the voice of a con¬ 
science long slumbering. But yet there has been 
this alleviation for thy betrayal; for through the 
blackness of these voiceless shadows thy face, O 
Amiee, shines upon me, and I hear your voice sing¬ 
ing softly, “ O, Richard, O mon Roi.” 

Restless and unstrung, I could not sleep last 
night, so I walked up and down the room to 
rid myself of this vague feeling of unrest. I had 
been walking perhaps half an hour when, as I ap¬ 
proached the lower end of the hall, I heard some 
one call me. Turning around, I found myself face 
to face with Mademoiselle. 

“You are restless to-night, Monsieur, or is it 
the cold ? ” “ The cold, surely — are you suffering 

from the same cause?” 


5 2 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


She looked down shyly and her voice was very 
grave when she answered, “Yes, Monsieur, but a 
little nervous, too. You know I go to-morrow.” 

I nodded thoughtfully. She sat down on the 
bench just under the window and motioned me to 
sit beside her. 

“May I ask you a question, Monsieur?” 

“Whatever you wish.” 

She leaned forward resting her head on her 
hand. 

“ Have you any brothers or sisters or parents 
living, Monsieur?” 

“No, they are all dead.” “And have you no 
wife nor children who will miss you ? ” “ No, I 

am alone, there will be few to care, thank God.” 

She looked up suddenly, her hand on my knee. 

“ Hush, Monsieur ! That word is never spoken 
here but in jest ”; her voice grew wistful, I 
thought, from eagerness. “ Are you a Christian, 
Monsieur, may I ask?” “No, Mademoiselle,” I 
replied. “ I am so sorry.” Her voice quivered, 
seemed almost sad. 

“ Will you over there on the bench keep still ? 
Pity a man can’t sleep in peace and the last night, 
too. Go to sleep, you, or keep still.” 

It was the querulous voice of old Hulot, the 
farmer-general, one of the morrow’s victims. We 
spoke no more, but sat silent, waiting for daylight. 
Only once she leaned over and whispered : 

“Monsieur, you will forgive me for what I said 
the other night? I am sorry.” 

I pressed her hand gently, and we both were 


AMIEE. 


53 

still. A little later she fell asleep, her head sink¬ 
ing upon my shoulder. I took off my coat and 
wrapped it around her, then leaned back against 
the wall, to wait for the dawn. To-morrow, 
thought I, looking down upon that fair, sweet face, 
she will be far from here. She will have reached 
the goal. The voice of some one speaking aroused 
me ; it was the Count. He, too, was restless. 

“So Cupid has squeezed in even here,” he said 
gallantly, placing his hand over his heart, bowing 
mockingly to me. “ She is asleep,” I said, “speak 
softly.” He came a little nearer and looked down 
into her face. There was a real kindness and ten¬ 
derness in his voice when he again spoke. “ Poor 
little girl! How much the Republic would suffer 
if she lived. Don’t move,” he said as I shifted my 
position, “let her sleep ; the time flies swifter and 
the agony of suspense will be the shorter. She 
goes to-morrow, does she not ? ” I nodded. “ By 
the way,” he added, “ I shall have the pleasure of 
your company the day after. The jailer told me 
last night.” He bent over and kissed her hand 
like the old chevalier that he was, and with a “ Bon 
soir, Monsieur,” he turned and walked away. 

The night seemed very long. I dared not move 
lest I should wake her, so I sat still and waited. 
Her fair young head, with its wealth of long, brown 
hair rested quietly on my shoulder, her breath 
came regular and soft. 

It must have been almost morning when she 
awoke. “Have you been awake all night?” she 
said, looking up into my face. “ Yes.” “ And you 
5 * 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


54 

are shivering with cold, and have wrapped me in 
your cloak to keep me warm ; you are very kind. I 
can never repay you.” “You owe me just one 
thing,” I replied, “you will let me kiss you.” She 
smiled and hesitated. “Monsieur, you may, just 
once.” 

It was eight o’clock when the jailer came in 
and called out the names of those set apart for the 
day. I stood beside her when her name was read, 
and she never winced. There was the usual silent 
grasp of the hand as friend parted from friend ; 
sometimes a last kiss was given and taken as they 
went to their places against the wall. 

She came back to me when she had gone the 
rounds. “ It is time to say good bye,” she said. 

I nodded, not daring to trust my voice. 

She looked full in my face when I did not 
answer. She must have read my thoughts. “ Did 
you care for me so much ? ” There was a pause — 

“ Monsieur, you may kiss me just once more.” 

There was the rumbling of the tumbrils in the 
court below, the harsh, monotonous voice of the 
jailer calling out the names of the doomed as they 
passed separately through the gate. A last lin¬ 
gering pressure of the hand and she goes. The 
heavy gate swung back upon its hinges, and I see 
her no more, shall never see her again in all this 
world, never. The tumbrils creak and rumble as 
they pass through the street. I listen until the 
rumbling dies away in the distance. 

This to Eugene Saint Aubert of Coblentz by the 
jailer, Four 7 naire. Let him be rewarded. 

George Willis Ellis. 


“Qpttg t6c QSfmb." 


I. 


T HEY are crying their mellow wares, the 
swarthy fruit venders, carelessly swaying 
under huge baskets, gushing over with great 
clusters of purple and amber, amid tawny oranges 
and mandarines that glow like gold — pale gold 
and dusky gold — in the chill, keen air of red 
autumn. 

By the gray, foot-worn steps of the cathedral 
of the Holy Name and our Lady of the Seven Sor¬ 
rows, a shriveled, white-haired, old beggar, grind¬ 
ing out a lawless fanfare on his discordant instru¬ 
ment, lifts his sightless eyeballs to a cold, smiling 
sky, and cries, in a cracked, monotonous voice, 
“ For the sake of Our Lady, pity the blind ! ” 
Along the long promenade rolls the slow surge 
of glistening carriages ; imperturbable coachmen 
in front ; discreet lackeys behind. 

Here, crushing soft, violet-scented cushions, 
muffled in splendor of fur, and glow of velvet, 
drive those whom the world envies rancorously, 
and loves well — and beneath those masks with 
the painted smile, lurk features that are jaded 
with the weariness of ever same days, and distorted 




TRINITY SKETCHES. 


56 

with pride, avarice, and the other five of the seven 
sins that are deadly. 

On the doors of deep-paneled ebony, are em¬ 
blazoned, here the gold coronet of a fat English 
duchess, in red ; there, a gilt cupid, the significant 
emblem of Lola, the commedienne ; and now the 
proud arms of the cadaverous, painted, old Marquis 
of Montbazon sweep disdainfully by. 

In yonder carriage with the saffron-hued liver¬ 
ies, drawn by the black horses that fret beneath 
the soft jangle of their silver trappings, drives the 
young son and heir of that feeble old dotard— His 
Grace of Coela-Ferriers. By his side a woman in 
black sable, the languid insolence of whose flam¬ 
ing beauty dismays. 

Then the carriage passes on, and a vision of a 
scarlet smile, half hidden under a film of veil, 
lingers behind. 

Far out, the indolent, sleepy sea sparkles like 
the tremulous sapphires on the white, fluttering 
throat of a prima donna; nearer, it rolls shore¬ 
ward in long, lazy, undulating swells that break, 
and laps against the crumbling, gray pier, softly, 
like the crafty purr of a demure, fierce beast. 

II. 

On the broad, white pavement, ragged, dusky- 
eyed peasant boys, with bare, brown legs, and 
naked, sun-bronzed chests, are shrilly crying their 
fragrant merchandise ; their big baskets heaped 
high with the sullen purple of violets and the crim- 


“PITY THE BLIND/ 


son of roses that glow like smouldering coals in 
the crisp, sharp air of the early spring-time. 

By the gray, foot-worn steps of the Cathedral 
of the Holy Name and Our Lady of the Seven 
Sorrows, a shriveled, white-haired old beggar, 
grinding out a monotonous air on his wheezy 
instrument, lifts his dead eyeballs to a cold, smil¬ 
ing sky, and cries, in a cracked, feeble voice, “ For 
the love of Our Lady, pity the blind ! ” 

Along the long promenade, rolls the same slow 
surge of glistening carriages ; but the fat English 
duchess in red is missing ; Lola no longer drives ; 
deeper furrows mar the youthful pink of the old 
Marquis of Montbazon’s cheeks ; and sleek grays 
now draw the carriage in which the young Duke 
of Coela-Ferriers — coachman and lackeys decor¬ 
ously liveried in demure gray — sits, with an air of 
chastened resignation, by the side of his young 
bride, a slim girl with steady gray eyes. 

“ The Coela-Ferriers has sown his wild oats. 
They say that three years ago he — Holy Mother! 
what was that ? ” 

Out from the turmoil of the paved street rings 
a woman’s cry ; and then, the inevitable crush of 
the indifferently curious. A woman, haggard 
and worn, in shabby sables, lies upon the stone 
pavement. The indignant grays are brought to a 
halt by the gathering throng. 

Then the woman rises, hurries swiftly into the 
parting crowd and is lost. The curiously indiffer¬ 
ent go on their several ways ; the episode is over ; 
and the restive grays once more prance on to the 
soft jangle of their silver trappings. 


58 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


His Grace of Coela-Ferriers yawns just a little 
behind a perfectly gloved hand ; deliberately re¬ 
moves his glass, and then remarks : “ Only a 

swoon, my love. The crowd, perhaps ; or,” he 
adds reflectively, “ the woman may have been 
drinking.” 


III. 

Into those sparkling waters the suicide leapt. 
Beneath their laughing waves her wan face lies 
with dead, upturned eyes, that once mirrored the 
love of his own. 

Her last sin committed, her last temptation 
victorious, she has found at the last — it may be — 
rest. 

Still, along the long promenade, the eternal 
surge of carriages rolls, and there, by the gray, 
foot-worn steps of the Cathedral of the Holy Name 
and Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, the shriveled, 
white-haired old beggar, grinding out a dreary 
waltz on his wailing instrument, lifts his unseeing 
eyes to a pitiless, smiling sky, and plaintively cries 
— as her dumb, dead lips cannot cry — “ For the 
love of Our Lady, pity the blind! ” 

Far out, the indolent, sleepy sea sparkles like 
the tremulous sapphires on the white, fluttering 
throat of the prima donna ; nearer, it rolls shore¬ 
ward in long, lazy, undulating swells that break, 
and laps against the crumbling, gray pier, softly, 
like the contented purr of a sly, fierce beast. 

Arthur Leslie Green. 


(ttXare^ ffotoer. 


i. 

T HE August sun made the clear waters of the 
lower Cocheco look invitingly cool. The 
marsh grass along the shores rustled in the 
breeze, and a sea crow, which had been dreaming 
on the top of a long spar-buoy, took flight with a 
hoarse croak. It was not the coming of one of the 
three-masted schooners that were sometimes towed 
up the river, like bound captives from the ocean, 
that had disturbed him. The only craft in sight 
was a white canvas canoe with paddle blades alter¬ 
nately glancing in the sun. The man in the canoe 
might have been thirty, or possibly not more than 
t w enty-five. 

Robert Vaughn, or Bob, as his college chums, 
whom he had left at camp two days before, would 
have called him, would doubtless have been de¬ 
scribed by a newspaper reporter as a “litterateur 
He had taken his Ph.D. at an American Univer¬ 
sity, and had studied in Berlin. There had lately 
been some talk among his friends that a tutorship 
would be offered him. But this morning he 
thought little of rank or degrees. The exhilara¬ 
tion of the morning’s paddle, and the ever-shifting 
aspect of the farms along the river side, as the tide 


6 o 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


bore on his little craft, had routed all these 
thoughts from his mind, and left it clear as the 
paper on which he planned to write a story of 
camp life. He often planned these stories, but 
usually his friends, Brown or Honson, wrote them. 
They would be so much in Brown’s or Honson’s 
style, he thought. 

A light breeze began to draw down the river, 
and he spread his sail. In the middle of the stream 
a schooner was lying at anchor, her tall spars and 
rigging reflected in the water. No life was visible 
on board. Attracted by the stillness of the vessel, 
Vaughn steered close under her bow and along 
the side. Too late he sees a stern line stretching 
out across the water. The frail mast snaps across 
it and he is thrown into the tide. When he makes 
his appearance again, sputtering and altogether 
disgusted, he sees his canoe cheerfully drifting 
down stream, keel upwards. He looks at the quiet 
schooner, and then, with a muttered imprecation, 
strikes out toward the store. The river is wide, 
and it is no small task to swim the distance in 
clinging clothes. As he gains the shallow water, 
he notices a figure standing on the bank evidently 
interested in his safety. He flounders ashore, fes¬ 
tooned with long streamers of eel-grass, to be ac¬ 
costed by a tall girl with rather a serious face, but 
with eyes that almost tempt him to say something 
pretty about Hero and Leander. 

“ I hope, sir,’ you are not hurt; you must come 
up to the house. Mother will be glad to find some 
dry clothes for you.” 


A MARSH FLOWER. 


61 

Vaughn could only mutter something about 
“very kind — must secure his canoe.” But just 
then he sees that some farm hands have taken the 
runaway in hand, and, as he feels disagreeably wet 
and faint, he is glad to follow the girl up the bank. 

The house was some distance back on the high 
bank. On the flat rock that served as a doorstep 
stood a motherly-looking little woman, shading 
her eyes with her hand, as she watched the ap¬ 
proach of her daughter with the stranger. 

“ What has happened, Mary ? ” she asked. 

“Only a slight ducking, I assure you, madam,” 
interrupted Vaughn, “and your daughter was so 
kind as to offer me your hospitality.” 

II. 

Vaughn’s reception had been so cordial, his sur¬ 
roundings so pleasant at the old farmhouse, that 
he had sought to prolong his stay. 

Mrs. Saunders needed no extra inducements to 
persuade her to harbor a man who she imagined 
looked like her dead son. And good Farmer Saun¬ 
ders was not averse to so pleasant a companion as 
Vaughn proved. 

Of Mary Saunders he had seen much, yet she 
she had seemed to hold him at a distance in all 
their talks, and he had never felt that he quite un¬ 
derstood her. She was a woman of cultivation, 
and of keen appreciation of the natural beauties 
that surrounded her home. His first intimation of 
her attainments had been the finding of a collec- 


6 


6 2 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


tion of excellent novels in the “ clock-room.” “ The 
Marble Faun,” “Off the Skelligs,” “Pendennis,” 
and Miss Jewett’s “Marsh Island” had been 
among the well-worn volumes. Since then he had 
had many pleasant talks with her on literary sub¬ 
jects. On the last two Sundays she had driven 
him to the little rubble stone church in the market 
town. These services, with Mary Saunders sitting 
in the pew by his side, had been such as Vaughn 
would not soon forget. Once he had rowed her, 
in her own small boat, up one of the branches of 
the river to call on a friend in the village there, 
and twice she had been out with him in his canoe 
at sunset. He became strangely attached to her 
quiet ways, and had even wondered if there was 
any probability of his falling in love. 

This afternoon they were sitting together on 
the seat that had been built by the old poplar on 
the bank. She was sketching the brickyard, with a 
kiln of red bricks, on the opposite shore. He held 
a book in his hand, but had not been reading for 
some time. The old poplar under which they sat, 
standing alone on a prominent point of the bank, 
had been called by the river men “the widow.” 
Vaughn looked up at its gnarled old trunk and 
then down at the fair young woman busily paint¬ 
ing at his side. Her hair was golden brown, and 
this afternoon Vaughn thought she had arranged 
it in a particularly becoming manner. She wore 
a white muslin dress, and had fastened a bunch of 
red poppies at her belt. 

“Couldn’t you write a book about the river, 


A MARSH FLOWER. 63 

Mr. Vaughn, that I could illustrate?” she said, 
looking up from her sketch. 

“ I did think something of it, I admit, but since 
I have read your copy of ‘ Marsh Island,’ I have 
made up my mind that the laureateship of the re¬ 
gion isn’t vacant.” 

“ I don’t like ‘ Marsh Island ’ very well,” she re¬ 
sponded quickly, and then checked herself, as if 
she had said more than she intended. 

“ Why not ?” inquired Vaughn, looking hard at 
the expressive eyes, half hid by the drooping 
lashes, and at the blush that would come. 

“I don’t think Dorris Owen would have en¬ 
joyed life with the ship’s blacksmith. Why 
couldn’t she have married the artist?” 

And what was there to prevent him, Robert 
Vaughn, from marrying her? The brickyard 
across the river grew indistinct. Should he speak ? 
Might this beautiful woman be his for the asking ? 
He hesitated, and the opportunity slipped away. 

Mary Saunders gathered her brushes, and, say¬ 
ing that her mother expected her to get tea that 
evening, left him to his thoughts. 

A pleasure launch was passing at the time, and 
he heard the passengers laugh merrily. 

III. 

Vaughn could not make up his mind to leave 
the farm until long after the marsh hay had been 
cut, and the marshes had taken on the yellow au¬ 
tumnal color, contrasting forcibly with the strips 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


64 

of blue water at high tide. Finally a letter came, 
offering him a tutorship, and he must go. He had 
parted with the good farmer and his wife at the 
door rock by which he had been so hospitably re¬ 
ceived, and had begged Mary to walk with him to 
the shore. 

An awkward silence had seemed likely to en¬ 
sue, and by way of averting it, he remarked : 

“ It is over a month since I was so unceremo¬ 
niously unhorsed at your door.” 

“ I am sure you have proved a very dutiful 
knight,” she answered. 

“ And will my lady not give me some token be¬ 
fore I go again into the fight ? ” he asked. 

She quickly removed a spray of late golden rod 
from her hair and gave it to him. 

At the old poplar he held out his hand to bid 
her good-bye ; their eyes met, and the old feeling 
of uncertainty seized him. Wild thoughts chased 
each other through his mind as she returned the 
firm pressure of his hand. No ! He would go. 
He turned rather abruptly and went toward his 
canoe. As he prepared to start, she stood watch¬ 
ing him. She held her handkerchief in her hand ; 
was it to wave a last farewell ? 

The tide was high and the afternoon sun shone 
down into the clear water, revealing the sandy bot¬ 
tom, and an occasional cunner darting out from 
the seaweed. A “gundolo,” with its triangular 
sail, was moving slowly up the stream. Vaughn 
paddled out through the eelgrass that bent before 
the bow of the canoe, to the blue water beyond. 


A MARSH FLOWER. 


6 5 

But why should he go ? What is he going to ? 
What is he leaving? He will not go. He turns in 
his seat, but Mary Saunders has turned toward 
the high house, and the old tree hides her from his 
sight. The bank covered with dry grass looks des¬ 
olate. Ah ! If she had waited but one moment 
longer. He forces the paddle blades deep into the 
water, and the canoe moves easily forward, in¬ 
creasing the distance between them. 

When she looks back again, the little craft is 
far down the river. She does not go at once into 
the house. Charles Albert Horne. 


6 * 


£0e £ca 


N IGHT had flown over the sea on the tremu¬ 
lous wings of a bat. 

A murmur arose from the waters, a mur¬ 
mur as of wind through the forest or the sighing 
of sorrowful souls ; and the heavy waves rose and 
fell like the breast of one who weeps. 

And now as the moon climbed higher and 
marked its pallid path on the ocean, the Spiders of 
the Sea began their journey of the night. 

Out of the horrid hollows of the waves they 
crept and, swarming into the moon's bright track, 
darted hither and thither and scrambled over the 
waters — the Sea Spiders with bodies of silver and 
opal. 

From the spot where a tall ship had foundered 
came floating the body of a maiden, adrift on the 
careless, cruel waves, adrift in the night and the 
sea. She is borne into the bright track of the 
moon and the spiders swarm over her. Over the 
fair, floating hair they crawl, and over the wan, 
sunken eyes, over the shoulder, over the breasts — 
the Sea Spiders, with bodies of silver and opal. 

But when the moon sits shuddering on the sea 
in the west, the bloated bodies of the spiders burst 
and the moon drinks their blood — the blood of 
the obscene Sea Spiders, the spiders whose bodies 
are opal and silver. 


Arthur Leslie Green. 




(pterre’s (Return. 


i. 


F AR in the sunny south, by the sea there is 
a vineyard, set like a green emerald in a 
ring of gold. 

For all about are golden fields, where dull, 
toiling oxen plod beneath curved yokes; and 
gleaming scythes cut sweeping swathes through 
yellow waves of wine-swayed grain. 

Overhead, in the blue sky, slow, silver swallows 
chase and follow the lazy white clouds through all 
the languid summer’s drowsy days. 

Amid the gnarled and distorted vines of the old 
vineyard, bare-headed, sun-bronzed peasant girls 
are at work, plucking from under the green leaves 
the great clusters of purple or amber that hide 
there. 

Among the stooping figures, one — with hair 
yellow like the grain yonder, and eyes as blue 
as the sky above — stands erect, and shading her 
eyes with a hand kissed brown by an August sun, 
gazes, longingly, far out at the silver streak that 
divides the blue of the sky from the blue of the 
sea. 

“Only a little day, and he will return, my 




68 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Pierre, to bear me back to the far new land where 
he has toiled so long to earn the home.” 

“ Only a day,” she murmurs, and wearily 
stoops again to her toil. 

And far away a slow bell chimes, lazily, the 
lagging hours. 


II. 

In the hush of the short, southern twilight, 
from the gray, crumbling tower of a vine-swathed 
church, encircled by brown fields in which the 
yellow sheaves stand thick, a slow bell tolls 
drearily. 

Yonder, on a sea of quivering silver, floats a 
slender ship, its white wings stained scarlet by the 
sullen glow of the smouldering west. 

Overhead, in the violet air, slow gray swallows 
are hovering. 

Through the peace and the silence of the quiet 
country a long, slow train of sun-bronzed peasants 
weepingly follow the dull, plodding oxen as they 
drag slowly, slowly over bright flowers and be¬ 
neath a smiling sky, a grim, creaking chariot with 
sable plumes nodding gruesomely. 

Pierre has returned. 


Arthur Leslie Green. 


($• ©cccptm ©inner. 


L EM came up to the back porch to deliver 
a note from “ Marse Adams,” my neighbor 
on the River Road. Lem was a darkey 
of the old school, a ‘‘gentleman’s gentleman” 
before the war, and he had that quiet air of polite¬ 
ness about him that is conspicuously absent in the 
younger generation of his race — a politeness 
peculiarly pleasant and conveying a sort of dignity 
with it which, in spite of rags and tatters, gains its 
meed of respect and esteem from all, from none 
more than the older class of whites, who taught 
Lem and his fellows that very lesson. 

The old man stood there, hat in hand, while 
I read my note. It was the day after Thanksgiv¬ 
ing, bleak and raw; and the wind whipped the 
long tails of his aged coat — former property of 
the aforesaid Marse Adams — about his legs, 
played with his whitening hair and snatched at 
the faded hat. I have spoken of him as old, yet in 
reality he was only upon the border of that last, 
great period of life, and had not yet attained to 
the dignified title of “Uncle,” which distinctly 
marks a certain advanced stage of age and infirmi¬ 
ties. He tucked the note containing my reply 
into one pocket, the small coin that accompanied 




70 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


it into another, and with an elaborate bow and 
hearty “Thankee, sah,” prepared to return. 

“Hope you had a good dinner Thanksgiving 
Day, Lem,” I ventured as a parting remark. The 
next moment I was sorry I had spoken, for a 
peculiar melancholy crept over Lem’s face; he 
shrugged his shoulders and then let them hang in 
a dejected manner; his head declined; his whole 
attitude showed that I had struck a tender sub¬ 
ject. “No, sah,” he said in a peculiarly grave and 
earnest tone. “It wuz a mighty po’ dinnah, sah.” 
Then seeing the look of inquiry in my face, he 
sidled slowly behind a projecting angle of the 
house out of the wind, scratching his head 
thoughtfully as he did so, a certain sign that 
he had a story to tell and was anxious to tell it. 
The day after Thanksgiving is always a dull one, 
and I was ready for any diversion, so I signified 
my curiosity to learn the details of the matter, and 
he related them accordingly. 

“Seems to me I nevah had sich luck befo’ in 
my life, Marse Harry, and the’ wa’n’t nobody to 
blame but jis’ myse’f. Ef I hadn’t been sich an 
ole fool ’twould a been all right. Dat’s w’at 
makes it seem wus ’en anything else, sah. Long’s 
I’ve hunted possums to hev dat possum fool me 
dat a way! It wuz a mighty big possum, too, 
Marse Harry; seems to me I nevah did see sich a 
big possum befo’. I done cotch him in de big 
fiel’ down back o’ ole Mis’ Grange’s co’n house. 
One o’ my dogs done put ’im up a big tree — you 
remembah dat yaller dog Jim o’ mine, Marse 


A DECEPTIVE DINNER. 7I 

Harry, de one wid mos’ o’ his left eah chawed 
off and de mark on his nose ’cause he fight so 
much. Dah de possum wuz a settin’ up in a 
croth tryin’ to hide hisse’f, an’ Jim a racin’ an’ 
tearin’ an’ ba’kin’ ’roun’ at de bottom o’ de tree 
like he wuz crazy. My oldes' boy, Pete, wuz wid 
me. He’s a wu’fless, good-fo-nothin’ sort o’ boy 
ge’nally, but he’s mighty spry at climbin’ trees, so 
he ’low to me, ‘ Daddy, you jis’ take you stick an’ 
hit the possum on de haid w’en I shake him down ’ 
— I ’spect he wan’ to show off befo’ his po’ ole 
dad. So he dim’ up de tree and bimeby down 
came Mistah Possum haid ovah heels, an’ I hit ’im 
ovah de haid, hahd as I could, and dar he lay jis’ 
as quiet as a log, so I ’spose’ he wuz daid. Pete 
he had a bag of sweet potatoes a cyahyin’ from ole 
Mis’ Grange’s, but dey wuz enough room in de bag 
for de possum, so we put ’im in and tote him home. 

“ My lan’, wasn’ my ole ’oman ’sprise’ to see dat 
possum! We done put him on de table an’ her 
an’ de chil’n jis’ clap dey han’s an’ shout. De 
possum lay dah wid his legs stickin’ up in de aih 
jis’ as quiet — deh ain no use tellin’ me dat possum 
wa’n daid, Marse Harry, I jis’ know he wuz ? 
Pretty soon Pete an’ me wen’ out an’ de ole ’oman 
begin a mixin’ up stuffin’, bread crus’ an’ onions 
an’ some sage—Marse Harry, you’ wife ’low deh 
ain’ no bettah cook in dis county den Lucy. She 
doan’ wan’ no fuss when she’s wukin’, so she jis’ 
made all de chil’n get out do’s, an’ when she done 
mixed de stuffin’ she put it in a pan on de table by 
de possum. She had a hot fiah going’ and hoisted 


72 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


de windah ’cause it waz so wa’m. Den she got de 
butcher knife down off de shelf to clean de possum 
wid. She woan nevah clean nothin’ widout the 
knife’s sha’p as a razah, an’ so she took it out to de 
grin’ stone, side o’ de house, to sha’pen it. 

“ Me an’ Pete was a cuttin’ wood down by de 
cowpen. Pete ’low to me, ‘Daddy, deah ain’ 
nothin’ so nice as possum, is deh?’ ‘No, chile, 
deh ain’,’ ’low I. ‘When its got lots o’ gravy an’ 
stuffin’,’ ’low Pete, ‘an’ sweet potatoes all roun’ it 
in de bottom o’ de pan ! ’ ‘Yes, indeed, chile,’ I 
’low. Pete he chopped a little w’ile, den he said, 
‘ Daddy, ’deed dat’s de fates’ possum I evah seen 
sence I was bohn. Woan’ he smell nice w’en you 
ca’ve him ? ’ My mouf wuz waterin’ so I could’n’ 
stan’ it. I jis’ ’low, ‘You good-for-nuffin’ niggah, 
w’y doan you chop dat wood ’stid o’ gassin’ so 
much. Doan you open yo’ haid agin till you finish 
dat pile o’ wood.’ Jis’ den dey wuz de awfules’ 
yellin’ up at de house. ‘ My lan’, Daddy, what’s 
dat?’ Pete cry. De yellin’ kep’ a gittin’ louder ’n 
louder, an’ den we bof took off an’ ran hahd as we 
could tear; and when we got deh po’ Lucy and de 
chil’n wuz cryin’ an’ hollerin’, hollerin’ an’ cryin’: 
‘ De possum’s gone ! De possum’s gone ! ’ Sho’ 
enuf it had. While Lucy was a sha’penin’ de 
knife de possum done come to life an’ took hisse’f 
outen de windah. But dat wuz a mighty cute 
possum, Marse Harry, foh w’en we look in de pan 
de stuffin’ wuz gone too ! De possum done eat it 
all up befo’ he wen’—he done stuff hisse’f ! ” 

Robert Tongue. 


£$t (pt)tfo 0 op$g of an 0fi> (pipe. 


1 AM a gray-haired physician sitting in my study 
after a long night ride, smoking an old pipe 
of mine. The room has the old bachelor 
aspect, with deep set, red curtained windows, and 
a professional looking desk in one corner. Strewn 
everywhere is a motley library, arranged in a won¬ 
drous disorder that no hand but mine can unravel. 
There is an open fire-place, some rare engravings, 
and Father Time in the shape of an old clock 
ticks softly from the mantel-piece. My pipe 
turned up just now from a heap of old rubbish. It 
is short, made of some dark wood, with the bowl 
carved into a human face with a hooked nose. 
What a rush of memories came over me as I looked 
at the worn-out object. It has carried me back to 
a reverie of thirty years ago, yes, to the very day 
when it struck my fancy and I bought it. My 
thoughts flew back even to the days of childhood, 
its little disappointments, its doubts and fears and 
hopes that seemed so large. It is idle to think of 
them now ; rather I will recall from the past my 
college days over a quarter of a century ago. 
Then I was an enthusiast, more intense than most 
of my class, eager for the fray with the world, and 
looking forward in a vague sort of way to its end. 
7 




TRINITY SKETCHES. 


74 

I had plotted it all out in my busy college life, and 
it read like a romance, with trial in the beginning, 
but soon, very soon, the last chapter with its happy 
end. I saw very little desert with a great deal of 
mirage in my future, though then I did not know 
it was mirage. 

I had a burning ambition to be great. I remem¬ 
ber it well, as I smoke my pipe. It has gone 
where this smoke is going, and where my youth 
has gone. The pretty story of the historic heroes 
I was to rival proved but a fable. I remember 
well the day that the cruel fact was thrust upon 
me that I was but one of the common crowd. It 
seemed a stifling of my individuality to be let 
down among them from an aerial platform of my 
own making. There is nothing so bright as the 
quick play of the young imagination. When one 
is lowered to the miserable level of mediocrity, it 
can never sparkle again. 

But we forget, and the second act of our lives 
is soon upon us. How quickly the fire glows and 
then dies away in dull, gray ashes. Really, my 
pipe is a work of art. The hand that fashioned it 
must have had the true artist’s inspiration. The 
cynical face of that old man is the artist’s concep¬ 
tion of the man of the world or what the world had 
made of a man. He has been through it all, and 
his dim eyes see where mine are blind. For every¬ 
thing, he has that wicked, knowing, sneering look. 
He has seen scapegraces dodge the bailiff, and has 
smiled at them; unmoved, he has seen young 
prodigals casting their pearls before swine. He 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF AN OLD PIPE. 


75 

has seen fair maidens sell themselves for gold, and 
has shut his eyes. I can imagine the poor sculptor, 
after devoting his life to molding Madonnas, 
angels, Minervas, and forms of all kinds of beauty 
and being, unrequited by a selfish world, to have 
carved this old man in despite as an image of 
moral perversion and satiety. Before, I have 
always repulsed this view of life. Perhaps it 
would have been better if I had not. But some¬ 
thing impelled me. In after life, I have often 
wondered what that was ; and it seemed to me 
that it was better to fail than to believe the world 
a mockery, as the old man does, and that there was 
a certain love that covered up all disappointments 
and sorrows. 

I remember well, as I sit smoking here, the 
time when I threw myself into work. I could not 
be a world-wide hero, but there was still much for 
me to gain. The prize could not be far off, and if 
I were willing to work it would come soon. I 
could see the glittering objects of my fancy not 
far ahead, and I knew they would be easy to reach. 
I pressed on feverishly for a while, but the glitter 
of those prizes grew no brighter. I am fifty years 
old, and the prizes are little nearer now. 

But I would have cared nothing for material 
things could I have had my one ideal desire. The 
ethereal fancies of life are most powerful with us. 
In the fairy tale, Prince Beaufort first slays the 
dragon and then kneels at the feet of the Princess 
Beauxyeux. I had not slain the mythical dragon, 
but there was still the Princess Beauxyeux. The 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


76 

princess of my fancy seemed to me a true woman. 
But let me not recall the long story of my love 
and disappointment. It is too painful even now. 

These memories and many more are drawn out 
by the smoke of this historic pipe. The ghosts of 
broken faiths, lost hopes, and buried loves come 
crowding around me. To think that a pipe should 
have such potency ! “ Ah ! who of us is happy in 

this world ? ” Thackeray says. There is always 
something left undone that might have been done. 
We can never quite reach the shore of a paradise 
on earth. 

But the light of the hearth is dying, the dawn 
is breaking, and my pipe has gone out. And after 
all, when the smoke wreaths of our fancies here 
have vanished, who knows what dawn will break ? 
It is so unreal, so unsatisfying, this life of ours. 
We long to see things as they are, to grasp the 
eternal truths and see the eternal beauty. And 
when discouraged by our failures, disheartened by 
our weakness, is it wholly wrong to hope, however 
unreasonably, that the future will be bright, and 
to trust, however blindly, in honor and virtue and 
right conquering in the end ? 

[James Birckhead Birckhead. 


$.n (ftpofoguc of (peecimicm. 


T HE Sultan was plunged in profound gloom. 
The empire was tranquil, for the Western 
nations had not begun to lend it money nor 
to trouble it with the absurd ideas of our Western 
civilization. Religion was perfectly orthodox. 
Every morning and evening the Muezzin called 
the faithful to prayers, and multitudes prostrated 
themselves on the stone pavements with their 
faces towards the Holy City. The palace was a 
“ stately pleasure-dome,” gorgeous with brilliant 
marble, and surrounded by shady courts. The 
Sultan was young and the Sultana was beautiful. 
He was all powerful. To wish was to command 
and to command was to be obeyed. But yet the 
Sultan was not happy. He moved about in the 
courts alone, or sat by the fountains engaged in 
thoughts that were not pleasant. He looked on the 
most famous and graceful of the dancing girls with 
lack-lustre eyes. The poet, who could relate tales 
so interesting that his hearers almost forgot to 
breathe, failed to hold his attention. He ceased 
to take pleasure even in his favorite horse, who 
could rival the swallow’s flight in swiftness. 

7 * 




78 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


The Grand Vizier, Mahammed Baba, and the 
master of the palace, Hassan Ben Adem, consulted 
together. “Of a surety,” said they, “some evil 
djin has possession of the commander of the faith¬ 
ful, for he speaks strange things which no man 
can answer, and his eyes are continually cast down 
to the ground.” And the news went over the 
whole city that some evil spirit escaped from Eblis, 
had entered into the heart of the Sultan. 

Then the Vizier sought audience of the Sultan 
and prostrated himself nine times and said, “ Deign 
to listen to the humblest of thy slaves, O Light of 
the World.” 

And the Sultan said, “ Speak.” 

Then the Vizier said, “ Thy slaves would fain 
know why thou to whom the world belongs art 
sad, O Successor of the Prophet and lord of the 
east.” 

Then the Sultan raised his eyes and said: 
“ Know then, that to me, for some time the world 
seems evil and ruled by an evil God. My father 
gained the throne by the murder of his brothers, 
and always he who does wrong receives honor and 
praise. I see the just man everywhere forsaken 
and his children sold for slaves. Are not the mer¬ 
chants rich who give false weight, and is not the 
righteous man a beggar by the wayside, spurned 
out of the path by the hypocrite whom he bene¬ 
fited ? Is there anything stronger than the greed 
of man, except his lust ? To seek for happiness is 
ignoble, since it is fruitless, and all things turn to 
ashes in the hand. Therefore, I am sad, for the 


AN APOLOGUE OF PESSIMISM. 


79 

world is evidently an evil world, and made for the 
pleasure of an evil God.” 

The Vizier answered, “ These things are as they 
should be, O Lord of the Universe. There is a 
pleasure in fine raiment, and a greater pleasure in 
precious stones, and joy in a woman’s beauty, and 
in the strength of a man’s arms, and the wise man 
taketh all these things nor asketh whence they 
come, since he cannot carry them out of the 
world, for they belong to it. They are his who 
hath strength to get and skill to hold, and in the 
end Allah maketh all things well for the faithful.” 

Then the Sultan called to the chief Eunuch and 
said, “ Let this man be taken to the executioner.” 

Afterwards, there came to the palace an ancient 
man, a stranger. His beard was white and reached 
below his waist, but his eyes were deep and bright 
like unfathomed wells. He remained standing 
before the master of the palace, for he was one of 
the sacred tribe who dwell apart on the interior 
mountains of Arabia, and have had the pure faith 
since long before the prophet gave it to the world. 
They look down on the Egyptians as new comers, 
and on the Jews as upstarts of yesterday. Com¬ 
pared with them, the Greeks have “ neither knowl¬ 
edge of antiquity nor antiquity of knowledge,” 
and they bow the head to no man except to the 
successor of the prophet. In his hand this one 
held a brazen horn, graven on the outside and on 
the inside with strange characters, and he de¬ 
manded to be taken to the Sultan. When he was 
brought into the distant court where the Sultan 


8o 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


stood alone, he bowed his head, not with the slav¬ 
ish submission of a subject, but with the grace and 
courteous reverence of an equal saluting one of 
equal rank, and said : 

“ Tidings have been brought us of thy malady, 
O Successor of the Prophet, and we have known 
that it is that pain of the heart which comes to 
him who sees that the world is not good. So hath 
the heart of the wise man been tortured since 
the world began, for only the fool sayeth the world 
is good. But Allah has so framed the world that 
it is good to the man who knows the truth. There¬ 
fore, O Light of the East, this has been formed, and 
he who listens through it shall learn the secret of 
the world. For they who wrought it wrought with 
prayer and fasting, and uttered over it the sacred 
texts which have been handed down since the 
morning of creation, and the words of power have 
entered into its atoms while they were vibrating 
under the hammer. And they have engraved on 
it the two mighty names of Allah which are never 
spoken, and the characters which no man can read 
have power over the elements and compel the 
truth from the air. Therefore it is, that he who 
listens through this horn shall know all things 
and shall hear the harmony of the world. For to 
him who knows, the world is a harmony and not a 
discord. 

Then the Sultan took the horn and put it to his 
ear, and he heard all the noises of the world and 
the beating of its slow heart like confused mur¬ 
murs. But the beating of the world’s heart was 


AN APOLOGUE OF PESSIMISM. 81 

rhythmical in its swell and fall, and the multitudi¬ 
nous sound of its voices was sweet like the noises 
one hears in a swoon. He heard the sounds of 
joy and peace, and at intervals the wailing sound 
of despair and pain and suffering, the sighs of the 
wounded on distant plains, the tremulous breath of 
the dying man and the recurring groan when a 
new soul is bom into the world. Blended with 
these was a struggling chord, piercingly sweet and 
sad, and that was the note of life ; but it continu¬ 
ally passed into the dominant chord which rose 
above it, triumphant, and that was the note of 
death. 

Then the Sultan gave the horn back to the old 
man and said : 

“ It is, indeed, a harmony, but even sadder than 
the discord I thought it to be. The face of the 
world is bad, but far better than the hideous secret 
it hides in its heart. Increase of knowledge is but 
increase of pain. I do not wish to know the truth.” 

The wise man took the horn in silence and 
bent to the ground, for he felt that the Sultan 
was wiser than he. 

From that hour the Sultan’s gloom increased 
tenfold. 


<x QtJub <B»erman. 


H E had looked in at the club early in the even¬ 
ing, but the crowd had gone to Jersey City, 
to see some prize fight, and, as there were 
only a few loungers in the smoking room, he went 
out and sauntered down town undecided where to 
go. 

He had reached Thirty-Second street when it 
occurred to him that there was to be a bud german 
at Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s that evening, and a few 
of the older set had been asked, himself included. 
He had almost forgotten it, having gone out 
rarely lately, from fear of meeting her. But 
to-night—. He turned and retraced his steps. 

As he went up the steps of the Van Rensselaer 
mansion, he had planned his actions and even what 
he should say, for he had come in a forlorn hope 
of seeing her, or that something would happen. 

He looked around the hall after speaking 
to Mrs. Van Rensselaer, but she was nowhere 
in sight. He walked through the rooms, and 
chatted with a few friends, and even danced 
with some of the buds, but not a sight of her, and 
he had no desire to ask questions. 

He had had quite enough of it after half 
an hour, and determined to leave. There was 




AT A BUD GERMAN. 


83 

no more hope. It was ended for good, and all. He 
was a poor fool anyway. There was no need 
of dreaming any longer. He would go his own 
way as she had gone her’s. 

So he left the room, having done nothing 
he had planned to do, having said nothing he 
had thought to say. So like a man, foolish, 
unreasonable, an actor, fit enough to be the toy of 
a woman, who could have been so unjust. 

There was a log fire in the open fireplace 
of the anteroom and the flickering flames cast into 
relief the figure of a girl seated on one of the 
divans, her white dress contrasting well with 
the green palms and ferns behind. 

He was on his way down stairs, but when she 
laid her hand upon the divan and smiled kindly 
upon him, he went over and and sat beside her. 

She surveyed him quietly and smiled know¬ 
ingly to herself, for she knew men well, and 
divined he had something he was anxious to talk 
about. 

She believed she knew just what it was, being 
also interested, and remained silent, knowing 
he would broach the subject himself. 

When he looked up she was leaning back 
against the pillow of the divan watching Revels, 
who was going down stairs. 

“ I want to ask you something,” he began after 
a few moments’ conversation on commonplaces. 

“ Do you ? What can it be ? ” She smiled at 
him with mock curiosity. 

“ It’s about her.” 


8 4 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“Oh,” said she, “you mean” — then paused as 
if doubtful. “ She’s here to-night you know.” 

He nodded and waved his hand toward the 
other room. “ They told me.” 

She rested her chin in her hand and regarded 
him thoughtfully. 

“You must hate her,” she said slowly, “you 
could never trust her again after what she has 
done.” She waited a moment, watching him 
closely, but he sat motionless without answering, 
and she continued, “ she would never be the same 
to you again, for you would be quick to judge and 
condemn her after this, and you could never feel 
as kindly toward her as before.” 

He leaned back and regarded her with a 
troubled look in his eyes, then shook his head. 
“ I don’t know. Do you think it would be that 
way ? ” 

“ I think it would.” 

He moved uncomfortably, and thrust his hands 
deep in his pockets, looking past and beyond her, 
but he felt she was watching him and wondered 
why. 

“ Do you think she is sorry, that she has ever 
regretted what she has done, that if it were to be 
done again she would — ” 

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 

“ Perhaps not. If she were, would you forgive 
her ? ” 

He did not knowhow to answer, being troubled 
and perplexed. He arose and stood gazing 
thoughtfully at the blazing logs, without seeing 


AT A BUD GERMAN. 


85 

them. She understood, and let him fight it out 
with himself. She was too much a woman of the 
world to doubt how it would end, and sat quietly, 
waiting for him to speak. “ If,” said he, “ a woman 
has been unjust to a man — and she must know it 
now after all this — time, is it not her place to tell 
him so ? ” She placed her hand to her head, and 
smiled at him. It was as she had believed it would 
be, his pride was making a last feeble stand before 
it yielded. “ Yes, perhaps she is sorry. It’s quite 
likely.” 

“ But I don’t know. Will you not tell me what 
you think ? You must know something about it. 
Don’t you ? ” 

She had arisen and stood before him, one hand 
holding up the folds of her dress, the other straight 
down at her side, carelessly toying with her fan. 

“ Yes,” said she, nodding to him, “ I do. But 
I can tell you nothing. If a man loved me, I 
should expect him to do much, very much to spare 
me.” She turned as if to leave, but paused. “ She 
was down in the corridor a short time ago ; Mr. 
Lansing has just gone into the supper room.” 
She stepped aside and watched him go down 
stairs. “ Ungrateful man,” she thought to herself, 
“he didn’t even thank me for the hint.” Then 
she went in search of Lansing. 

He was still doubtful as he went down. She 
had said little, and he had wished to hear so much. 
He took out his cigarette case as he went along, 
and determined to wait a little while in the smok¬ 
ing room before he went in search of her, though 
8 


86 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


he realized his time was short. Perhaps he would 
not seek her at all; it was hard to say what he 
would do. 

He was half way down stairs before he noticed 
there was someone sitting a few steps below him, 
a tall, slender figure in white and lavender, a sin¬ 
gle white rose in the masses of her hair fastened 
by a silver dagger. He paused and rolled his cig¬ 
arette mechanically between his fingers, then set 
his teeth and went on. He had determined to 
make no advances whatever, and stepped past her 
without a word, as if, in fact, he had not seen her 
sitting there. 

When he reached the door of the smoking 
room, he looked back. A desire to see how she 
looked, to see if she had noticed who it was that 
had passed her, possessed him ; it was an impulse 
that flashed upon him and gave him no time to 
decide wisely or calmly. Had the affair turned 
other than it did, he would have condemned him¬ 
self, but it was well. With so frail a rod does fate 
turn us to happiness, or drive us to misery. At any 
rate, he looked as if for someone coming down the 
stairs behind her— such actors are we in our poor, 
selfish comedy — as if it were a stranger sitting 
on the stair. 

She did not move, but sat calmly, without a 
trace of feeling in her face. The light in the hall 
was not over bright, but he could see her distinctly 
and felt she was watching him. 

She made a motion with her hand, a little mo¬ 
tion. She would have denied it. He denied that 


AT A BUD GERMAN. 


87 

he turned to look at her. It is immaterial. He 
found himself beside her. She did not arise, and 
her face seemed neither to welcome nor repel him. 
Such a mask can a woman wear. 

He waited, but she did not move, only her 
great, dark eyes were on his face, making him lose 
calm control of himself. Such was her power 
over him. It was well she was a good woman ; a 
bad would have done the devil’s work that night. 

“ Have you nothing to say to me ? ” he spoke 
quietly, but his voice was full of trouble. 

“ What would you have me say ? ” 

He leaned back against the wall, one hand in 
his pocket, the other stretched along the wainscot¬ 
ing. “ Only what you can say truly and best.” 

She lowered her eyes. “ Perhaps I ought,” she 
said slowly, “ but it is hard, sometimes, to say 
what one means without saying too much.” 

He waited a moment before replying, not 
understanding clearly. He felt he was making 
himself seem pitifully weak, and it piqued him. 
“ I thought,” said he, and he beat a tattoo with his 
fingers on the wainscoting, “ you might be sorry 
for what has happened ; that if it were to be gone 
over again, you would not be so quick to condemn 
me ; that if it were brought back to the starting 
point, you would trust me a little more, and my 
enemies a little less.” He waited a moment and 
then continued. “ It has hurt me.” 

She made no motion of sympathy, and he 
added “somewhat.” “ I did not think it of you,” 
he went on, “ but,” and he made a gesture with 


88 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


his hand that seemed to include everyone, “ they 
said that it made no difference to you ; you 
weren’t the one to care fora little thing like that.” 

“ What did you say ? ” she asked, and he might 
have seen she was trembling, but he was looking 
down and did not notice. 

“Nothing,” he replied, and paused. “Yes, I 
believe I did say something ; I said, ‘ Why should 
she ?’” 

She had turned from him, and was leaning 
back against the banisters, with her hands folded 
in her lap, looking away from him. 

“ You used to tell me,” said she, and her voice 
was husky, “ that a man should learn to brave the 
opinion of the world, and a woman to submit to 
it.” 

“ Yes, I did ; is it not true ? A cynic once told 
me, that if a man did not smirch his reputation 
himself, some woman’s tongue would do it for him, 
and his best friends would be the first to believe. 
I laughed at him then. He was wiser than I. He 
spoke truly.” 

Her lips trembled, and she held her hands 
before her face, that he might not see the pain he 
had caused her. 

She was not acting now, and he saw his words 
had cut to the quick, and he could not see her 
suffer. “ If you would forgive me,” said he, as if 
he had forgotten that he should have been the one 
to forgive, “You will give me that rose from your 
hair; if not, we will say no more, for I will never 
ask you again.” 


AT A BUD GERMAN. 


89 

She had recovered herself, and determined to 
take a little revenge for that speech that had stung 
her so plainly. She turned and smiled at him, but 
with her hands fixed the rose more firmly in her 
hair. The hope that had begun to dawn, died 
slowly out of his face and left it ashen. He 
thought she was but playing with him after all. 

“ Suppose,” said she, “ that I had promised it 
to Mr. Lansing, or, more probably, that I don’t 
care to give it to you, what then ? ” and she looked 
at him with anxious eyes. 

“ What then ? ” he repeated after her, “ why— ” 

She saw his face hardening, and the lines of 
his mouth deepen, and she spoke quickly. 

“ Suppose,” said she, “ it was the girl who should 
be forgiven, not the man ; that she was sorry, very 
sorry for what had happened ; that if he could 
trust her again she would never fail him, that if —” 
she paused and arose with her back to him. 

He sprang toward her, but stopped short, for 
Lansing was coming down the stairs in search of 
her. 

As he watched them go up together, he saw 
her gloved hand drop something over the banis¬ 
ters, that fluttered and fell on the floor beside him. 
It was a white rose with its stem broken, but he 
picked it up and placed it in his button-hole. 

There were rumors at the club next day, and 
the report shared honors with the J ersey City inci¬ 
dent for a week, and was then forgotten. 

George William Ellis. 


8* 


£$rou<j(5 f$e ©rop Curtain. 


Scene: One , anyone , say,for instance , seventh of 

the popular Unity Cotillons with the usual adjuncts: 
Sofnnolent Chaperons , politely bored; Pretty Girls , and 
Girls Not Pretty — ingeniously vivacious; Animate 
Dress Suits in A thletic Poses. Likewise , ^4 rgus-Eyed 
Drop-Curtain , Orchestra , <2 Heterogeneous Collection 
of Tawdry Child's Toys , Etc. 

Time : fust before the First Waltz. 


M ISS Sivansdown, [who, being in looks consid¬ 
erably above, and in intellect considerably 
below the average college belle, is corre¬ 
spondingly popular with Unity men] (to her partner) 
— I only regret, Mr. Swift, that your irrevocable 
decision that all is at an end between us, was not 
attained before you decided to honor me with this 
german, and that — 

Mr. Swift (smiling bitterly) —My decision ! Par¬ 
don me, Miss Swansdown, I am simply bending to 
your mandate as — 

Miss Swansdown — Sir ! Your cutting remarks 
in the carriage as well — 

Mr. Frankinsense Murre (running up, presents 
Miss Swansdown with a papier machd pig) —Won’t 
you honor me ? 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, thank you, Frank. ( They 




THROUGH THE DROP CURTAIN. 


91 


waltz .) Weren’t you glad, now, when Lent was 
safely over ? 

Mr. Murre [who has a futurity of clerical aspi¬ 
rations] — Ah, no, Miss Swansdown, we surely 
miss the voluntary chapel which, through the pro¬ 
visions of an all wise — 

Miss Swansdown (interrupting) — Ah, yes, but 
then, you have denied yourself so. No, no, don’t 
deny it. Your pallor and the black rings under 
your eyes speak eloquently (as they waltz into the 
obsolete May pole figure "to the man on her right). 
There, now, I appeal to Mr. Batt. Did not he fast, 
Mr. Batt ? 

Mr. Allnite Batt (who loves to put his foot in it) — 
Fast, well, rawthaw. Stein record for three years, 
you know. 

| In his 1 nculpating protestations, Mr. Murre succeeds in 
completely muddling the intricate figure, the subject of so 
much nocturnal thought.] 

Mr. Duke Swellington (who leads — semi-audibly) 
_/ 

[They return to Mr. Swift, who is the richer by a Japa¬ 
nese doll and an apathetic looking cotton stork, which Miss 
Swansdown observes, and her heart congeals.] 

Mr. Murre — Won’t you give me the inter¬ 
mission ? 

Miss Swansdown (half glancing at her partner who 
is talking glibly with Miss Elva Langdon on his left) — 
I’m sorry, but — but I’ve given it to Mr. Swift. 

Mr. Swift (whose smile freezes) — I’m sure — 

Miss Swansdown (laughing nervously) — See you 
again, Mr. Murre. 








92 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Mr. Swift —I’m sure I am quite. 

[A large, athletic looking young man rushes up, trips, bal¬ 
ances himself, and hurls into Miss Swansdown’s lap a rubber 
lizard.] 

Miss Swans down — Ah, how do, Mr. Goal, nice 
time ? 

Mr. G. Fielding Goal [the young gentleman who 
says “ yes, ma’am ”] — Yes, ma’am. 

Miss Swans down (as they lead out) — Now, do you 
athletic gods ever enjoy anything as ethereal as a 
German ? 

Mr. Goal — Yes, ma’am. 

Miss Swans down —Now really. (Sighing!) You 
blase men are so infatuating. 

Mr. Goal (radiantly) — No, ma’am. It’s you 
who are infatuating. How — how fragrant your 
violets are. “There’s violets — they’re for 
thoughts,” you know. 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, you are so very, very 
clever. The intermission ? (as they return .) I’m 
sorry I’ve promised it. ’Evening. 

[In the next round, they do not lead out, but Miss Enid 
Cardinall favors Mr. Swift with a red spotted jack in a blue 
striped box, then Mr. P. Crashington Pose glides up to Miss 
Swansdown. Oddly enough, he, too, has escaped being 
favored.] 

Mr. Pose (posing) — Good evening, Miss Swans¬ 
down ; our friend, Miss Cardinall, seems to be re¬ 
ceiving considerable attention from George. 

Miss Swansdown (wincing) — I — I hadn’t noticed. 
Who is this Miss Cardinall ? 


THROUGH THE DROP CURTAIN. 


93 

Mr. Pose — What ! Not to know Miss Cardinall 
argues yourself unknown. But you can meet her 
at my olive tea to-morrow. 

Miss Swansdown — Ah, yes, such a nice idea. 
Everybody will be there, I suppose. 

Mr. Pose [who deals in idioms and phrases] — 
Yes, drastic recommendation that. However, I 
never cut anyone. {As Mr. Swift returns.) Ah, 
here is your delinquent gallant. I yield to a better. 

[Mr. Swift and Miss Swansdown lead out separating at the 
first signal (six are usually required). Mr. Swift offers Miss 
Eva DuPois a red snake, and Miss Swansdown presents Mr. 
Digge among the stags, with a charming smile and a German 
beer mug.] 

Miss Swansdown — And so, Mr. Digge, books 
aside, you revel in the dance ? 

Mr. Grindely Digge {of the Golden Key , poor thing) 

— Yes, a brief respite, beloved metaphysics soon 
calls. 

[They waltz, and Mr. Digge, after indulging in some bar¬ 
baric evolutions, slips and falls upon the floor, which is as 
slippery as truth. He retires in confusion, leaving Miss 
Swansdown alone in the center of the hall.] 

Mr. Swift {hurrying up) — Do let me take you 
to our seat. 

Miss Swansdown {melting) — Thank you, George. 

Mr. Swift — Phyllis, don’t you think — 

[At this stage, young Mr. Blazay presents Miss Swans¬ 
down with the devil, in the similitude of a small gray ape on 
a painted green stick.] 

Mr. Blazay [surfeited of the world at nineteen] 

— Shan’t we valse, Miss Phyllis ? 


94 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Miss Swansdown (with a backward glance at Mr. 
Swift) — Oh, thank you. Jolly cotillon. 

Mr. Blazay ( with a shrug) — Jolly! Jolly !! Bored 
to death, you know! Heavens ! these abortive 
concoctions of satan — ! Gad, you know ! Can’t 
imagine why I came, m’sure. Girls stupid. Tired 
of swim. Heavens, you know. Even frappee 
salted ! 

Miss Swansdown — Why do you endure us ? 

Mr. Blazay — Oh, you amuse me, you know. 
See right through you. Awful, though. ’Soir, 
you really can valse. ( Returns to his suffering part- 
ner.) 

Mr. Swift —Now, Phyllis, I want to — 

Mr. Swellington {who leases') — Lead out, George. 

Mr. Swift (as they polka) — Don’t you think that 
you — that we — I mean why is it ? — 

[Here the ebony signal of the leader, and Miss Swans¬ 
down rushes away to give a brown paper heart to Tableton 
Litt.] 

Mr. Tableton Litt (who writes accepted articles) — 
Thanks so much. 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, your last Bulletin Board 
was so good, Mr. Litt. Your sonnet “ Maud’s 
Long Black Flowing Locks,” was divine. 

Mr. Litt — You honor and flat — 

[Here Mr. Mamothe Blawnde steps upon Miss Swans- 
downs diminutive toe, and Mr. Litt is obliged to assist her to 
her seat. With a broad grin Mr. Blawnde follows.] 

Mr. Blawnde [who is often forgetful of the fact 
that the executive control of the planet Earth has 


THROUGH THE DROP CURTAIN. 


95 

been assumed by an all wise providence] — Say, you 
see ! I’m awfully sorry, really now, I am. I 
didn’t see you, and then you know I only learned 
to dance last fall. 

[Silence as Mr. Blawnde blushingly withdraws. 

Then the orchestra, after a final shriek which dies into a 
discontented gurgle, becomes silent. 

The various couples, taking advantage of the intermission, 
descend into the gymnasium below, where the men enter in¬ 
to detail concerning the apparatus and their own prowess, 
explaining at the same time how ill they were at the last 
exhibition. 

The hall above is entirely deserted excepting by Mr. 
Swift and Miss Swansdown. The latter is beginning to recover 
from the effect of Mr. Blawnde’s two hundred and thirteen 
pounds.] 

Mr. Sivift (tenderly) — I am really so sorry. 

Miss Swansdown {wickedly) — Really ? 

Mr. Swift —Why, yes, of course I am. 

Miss Swansdown — Yes ? 

Mr. Swift —Yes. 

[Pause.] 

Mr. Swift — ] Are you ? — 

Miss Swansdown — J Did I ? — 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, pardon, Mr. Swift, what 
were you saying ? 

Mr. Swift — Excuse me, you were about to 
remark ? — 

Mr. Swift— ] 

0 7 Oh, noth — 

Miss Swansdown — J 

Mr. Swift {to himself) — I half believe I care as 
much for her as ever. Jove, how sweet she looks 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


9 6 

in that pink thing. Well, all her own fault. 
{Sighs.) 

Miss Swansdown {to herself) — What a goose I 
am, I’ll be really falling in love with him if I don’t 
watch out. How handsome he is. Oh, I feel so 
miserable. {Sighs.) 

Mr. Swift {breaking pause) — Mr. Pose seems 
quite attentive. 

Miss Swansdown — Yes. To whom? I hadn’t 
noticed. Miss Cardinall, perhaps ? 

Mr. Swift — I think you understand me. 

Miss Swansdown — Why, no. What do you 
mean ? Can’t you explain with all your liberal 
education ? 

Mr. Swift — May I ask what you consider a 
liberal education ? 

Miss Swansdown {with the wisdom of the serpent )— 
Well, at Unity, a liberal education consists of eat¬ 
ing in French, smoking in Spanish, and drinking 
in German. 

Mr. Swift — May I ask how that applies to me ? 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, no, no. I never said 
that a liberal education applied to you , Mr. Swift. 

[Pause.] 

Mr. Swift — Really, Miss Swansdown, I don’t 
see how you can have the face to flirt with a man 
like Pose. 

Miss Swansdown {laughing) — Flirt with Mr. 
Pose! That’s killing. 

Mr. Swift —Oh, very well, laugh away. He 
will make a worthy successor. 


THROUGH THE DROP CURTAIN. 


97 

Miss Swansdown (, innocently ) — Successor, to 
whom ? 

Mr. Swift — How easily and conveniently you 
forget. 

Miss Swansdown — Forget ? Forget whom ? 

Mr. Swift — Forget ! Yes, I suppose you forget 
our ride home from the last assembly. You forget 
what you wrote when I had my arm broken. 
{Bitterly) You forget what you said when we walked 
home together in the snow storm. Oh, yes, you 
forget easily. 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, stop, stop ! You said I 
was to f-f-forget — 

Mr. Swift — Yes, driven to it by you. 

Miss Swansdown —Driven? Who said I was a 
merciless coquette ! 

Mr. Swift — And who said I was a conceited 
egotist ? 

Miss Swansdown {frigidly) — May I trouble 
you to t-t-take me t-t-to ( breaking ) — O George, I 
didn’t think you could be so cruel. I thought — 
Oh, I know you never cared for m-m-me — but 
I’ll — Oh, I’m so, so — 

Mr. Swift — Phyllis, Phyllis, don’t, dear. I 
never meant, Oh, don’t you see how I love you ? 
There ! there ! and there ! 

Miss Swansdown — O, George. Don’t. Well, 
if — Don’t. There, I’m sure I saw that curtain 
move. One more then. 

Mr. Swift —Do forgive me, darling. It was 
all, all my fault. 

Miss Swansdown — Oh, no. It was all mine. I 
9 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


98 

was so afraid I should lose you, and, and — George, 
you horrid Goth, you’ll muss my hair. Wait until 
we start home. Oh, there they come back again. 
Now do look inane and as if nothing had happened. 
Mr. Swift — Then you forgive me ? 

Miss Swans down — Forgive you? Great beast! 
of course I do. 

Mr. Swift —And you love me again as much 
— more than ever ? 

Miss Swansdown — You silly boy. Of course I 
do. 

The Orchestra —Boom Tra-la-la ; Boom Tra-la- 
la ! Boom ! Boom ! ! Boom ! ! ! 

(Curtain.) 

Harry Safford Candee. 


Afternoon “Zm.” 


M R. Bernadin Stokes stood for a moment on 
the lower landing of the staircase. 

He gazed through the portierres into 
the crowded drawing-rooms, where countless men 
and women swarmed, laughing and talking gayly. 
The babel of tongues raged and swelled like the 
surging sea. 

“ A fool! a fool you are, Stokes, to come back 
to this sort of thing again ! ” he murmured to him¬ 
self, half laughing, as he proceeded to make his 
way slowly through the crowd and find his hostess. 

His entrance was at once noticed. Fat dow¬ 
agers fluttered, raised their glasses, smiled and 
bowed fawningly as he approached. Men sur¬ 
veyed him with interest. He became suddenly 
the center of interest, as unconsciously he moved 
down the room among familiar and unfamiliar 
faces. 

Two young girls, talking animatedly with some 
students, unobservant that they blocked his way, 
were laughing heartily at an apparently good joke. 
Bernadin Stokes listened involuntarily for a mo¬ 
ment, waiting for a chance to pass. 

L.ofC. 




IOO 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“Yes! I’ll bet you six pounds of Maillard’s 
candies I’m right! ” a tall, deep-voiced blonde was 
declaring in tones of delicious assurance. 

“ But where did you find out ? ” asked one of 
her companions, shyly. 

“Ah! never mind; I’ve heard!” she whispered 
mysteriously. “ She was a poor, country school- 
marm — used to be called ‘ Lucindy ’ Marks; 
made her own gowns, you know ; ate with her 
knife, perhaps, and all that sort of thing. Ugh ! 

- Ah!” with the most wonderful change of 

tone in the world ; “ It is you, Mr. Stokes ! Have 
you fallen from the sky? You’ve been very 
naughty lately, never going anywhere.” 

“I’m flattered, if anyone has missed me, I’m 
sure.” 

“ Missed you ? When the sun sets, you know, 
the earth is very dark,” murmured the blonde, 
laughing heartily at her own wittiness. She was 
about to add something more, but he, bowing 
rather coldly, passed on through the crowd. 

“ Isn’t he magnificent ? ” she whispered eagerly, 
looking around to see if her little attention had 
been noticed. “ One of the Stokes’, you know. 
Family dates back to Methuselah ! Tall, haughty 
and with that unmistakable air about him, and 
frightfully clever. But about that odious little 
Miss Marks. I-” 

“Why, I believe this is really Mr. Bernadin 
Stokes,” cried a slight, elderly woman, who, turn¬ 
ing suddenly in front of him, walked backward as 
she talked. 



AFTERNOON “TEA . 1 


IOI 


“ Mrs. Kirkbright ? ” 

“Yes,” smiling; “Mrs. Kirkbright. It’s very 
nice to see you again, Mr. Stokes. Have you come 
back to us for good ? Did you ever see such an 
enormous crowd ? Have you been able to catch a 
glimpse of Mrs. Sturtevant Brown yet ? Neither 
have I. Aren’t you almost crushed alive ? Isn’t 
it perfectly awful — I mean the crowd ? Do you 
know Miss Marks, for whom, they say, Mrs. 
Brown gives this ? But of course you don’t. Such 
funny stories regarding her. I never have seen 
her myself, but my daughter tells me there’s 
nothing particularly attractive about her. Fancy, 
she pretends to be nineteen ! Ah, Mr. Stokes, soci¬ 
ety’s changing dreadfully fast. I’m afraid you 
won’t know us at all, now you’re back again. She 

comes from the country, I believe-There’s 

such a noise I can’t say a single word ! ” 

“ It is very unfortunate.” 

“Yes — the noise — isn’t it? I’ve so much I’d 
like to say, you know. Are you looking for any¬ 
body, Mr. Stokes ? ” 

“No — that is — yes—I’m hoping to meet a 
friend whom I expected to see before this.” 

“The crowd, you know,” despairingly; “you 
can’t do a thing. I wish I might see this funny 
Miss Marks. Ah, here we are at last ! How do 
you do, my dear Mrs. Sturtevant Brown? We 
have to thank you for a most charming tea.” 

“ Mrs. Kirkbright! ” murmured the hostess, 
smiling absently as she shook hands, taking all the 
little lady’s remarks as a matter of course and not 
9 * 


102 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


listening to anything. Soon, however, she espied 
her companion and the absent smile turned to one 
of present pleasure. 

“ Mr. Stokes,” she exclaimed warmly, as Mrs. 
Kirkbright passed on, “ I am more than delighted 
to see you ! You’ve been so very difficult to se¬ 
cure lately. You must be sure and come back to 
me in a few moments. I shall have a little leisure 
soon,” the lady whispered, “ and I want to have a 
talk with you.” 

“ I will surely come,” he answered gravely, 
and then moved on to make room for the people 
behind, whose progress he impeded. 

Going through some curtains he found himself 
in a large, deliciously cool conservatory. Low 
music was coming from somewhere behind a 
hedge of palms and ferns. Pausing, relieved at 
having for a moment found quiet, he turned to 
examine a collection of orchids, and, as he did so, 
confronted a tall young lady who was looking at 
him with an air of amusement, through the glass 
which she held to her eye. 

“ Miss Robertson ? ” he said, a trifle surprised. 

“ Mr. Stokes ? ” she murmured, laughing and 
imitating his tone. Then she added, after a mo¬ 
ment, “ How deliciously calmly serene you look. 
Are you sorry that you have met me and all this 
heavenly revery must be broken by such a paltry 
thing as conversation? You need not talk, you 
know, unless you wish to.” 

“ Are you enjoying all this ? ” he asked, soberly. 


AFTERNOON “TEA. 


103 


“ Hugely,” she murmured, slyly drawing down 
the corners of her mouth. 

“You are the same as ever, I see,” he ob¬ 
served, smiling hardly. 

“ Ah, no, Bernadin, I am not the same, I am a 
different being,” she said, pensively, her studied 
cynicism disappearing. 

“Three years make great changes. I have 

been-wretched, Bernadin, all that time.” In 

her up-turned eyes one could fancy there were 
tears. 

He did not answer for a moment; he was pick¬ 
ing an orchid to pieces which he held in his hand. 

“ What is the name of this flower ? ” he asked 
at last. 

“ Bernadin,-” she began softly. 

“ It is called the flower of inconstancy, I think,” 
he said. “See, it changes color if you touch it. 
By the way,” he continued, throwing it down, “ Do 
you happen to know the Miss Marks for whom 
Mrs. Brown is said to give this thing?” 

An impatient look spread over his companion’s 
face, but in a moment it was gone. She laughed 
heartily, perhaps a little excitedly. 

“What, that fright 1 Has anyone been telling 
you about her? Know her? No; I can hardly 
say I do. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Only fancy your asking ? 
Why, she’s a complete barbarian — a perfect guy, 
I’m told. Red-haired, freckled little thing. No¬ 
body knows anything about her. I’m very anxious 
to see her, but Mrs. Manners told me about two 
minutes ago that she hasn’t come yet.” 



104 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


Again Bernadin Stokes did not answer. He 
seemed absorbed in thought. Etta Robertson 
was silent, too, a moment; the same plaintive ex¬ 
pression stealing over her face. 

“Bernadin,” she said softly, after a moment, 
“ Bernadin, forgive me. I never can forgive my¬ 
self, if you-” 

“ Why, it’s Mr. Stokes, as sure as the world! 
How do you do, Mr. Stokes ? I must speak to 
you,” exclaimed a large lady who was passing by. 

“ I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Trouville,” 
cried the young man with perceptible relief. 

“ Here is my daughter, Edith, too,” murmured 
the lady, blandly, contriving at the same time to 
bestow a very distant bow in Miss Robertson’s 
direction. 

“Edith! come here, dear. You know Mr. 
Stokes, do you not? We’ve been away so long, 
you know, Edith has forgotten everybody. We 
were all last winter in Bermuda, Mr. Stokes. It’s 
the loveliest place in the world. I cried when I 
came away. But all good times have to come to 
an end and I had to get back to attend to Laura’s 
wedding.” 

“ Is your elder daughter to be married ? ” asked 
the man smiling. 

“ Oh, yes. Didn’t you know it ? To Captain 
Bellingham — the loveliest Englishman. There! 
I’m going to send you away, Mr. Stokes, to get me 
some salad or something. I’m as hungry as a 
bear. And come right back. We’ll have a nice 
little gossip all to ourselves.” 


AFTERNOON “TEA/ 


Bernadin Stokes disappeared through the cur¬ 
tains. When he came back Miss Robertson had 
gone. 

“ There is such a crowd around the tea table, I 
thought my turn would never come,” he declared, 
amusedly. 

“ Have you ever seen Miss Marks ?” whispered 
Mrs. Trouville, mysteriously, after they were all 
comfortably settled. 

“ Is she here ? ” Bernadin Stokes asked, sud¬ 
denly. 

“ Probably-by this time. It’s nearly six 

and time to go ; common decency must make her 
come soon. This pates is delicious, Mr. Stokes. 
You are not eating anything. What’s the matter ? 
I always eat when I’m out. I think people are 
glad to have you. They say the reason she stays 
away so long is that she’s afraid — won’t know 
how to behave, you know.” 

“ Have you ever seen the young lady ? ” asked 
Stokes, a little gravely. 

“ No ; but I’ve heard nothing else but ‘ Miss 
Marks ’ since I got back. I wonder if Hasse or 
Babenstein is catering. It tastes like Babenstein, I 
think, Edith. Society’s changing very fast, I fear 
Mr. Stokes. To think of such a young person as 
Miss Marks, evidently an unmannerly, calculating 
thing, coming in amongst us, when there are so 
many really nice girls who-” 

Mrs. Trouville discreetly left the sentence un¬ 
finished, contenting herself with bestowing a fond 




I0 6 TRINITY SKETCHES. 

glance on her daughter and a beaming one on 
Mr. Stokes. 

For some fifteen minutes the little group sat 
chatting. Then there was a general stir in the 
conservatory. It was after six o’clock and every 
one seemed suddenly to be leaving. 

“We must say good-night, I suppose,” declared 
Mrs. Trouville, regretfully. “ But you must be 
sure and come and see us — I have Mondays, you 
know — I believe we shall have to leave without 
seeing her after all.” 

“Who do you mean by ‘her,’” asked Stokes, 
smiling radiantly as they came back to the draw¬ 
ing-room and noise again. 

“ Why, ‘ the Marks,’ of course. How provoking 
that we couldn’t see her.” 

“ If you look directly to the right of Mrs. 
Sturtevant-Brown, you will see her,” the man at 
her side answered quietly. 

“ Mercy ! Do you know her ? ” asked Mrs. 
Trouville in amazement, suddenly putting up her 
glass and gazing in the direction indicated, eager 
for what she should see. 

She saw a beautiful young girl, whose deli¬ 
cately refined face lit up with a happy smile as 
she quietly talked with her hostess. She was 
small and slight, with quantities of rich golden 
brown hair, tucked up under a bewitchingly be¬ 
coming bonnet. She was dressed in soft grays 
and carried a bouquet of pink tulips in her hand. 

Bernadin Stokes had reached her side. His 
handsome face glowed with eagerness as he bent 


AFTERNOON “ TEA . 1 


107 


over, and in a low voice murmured something in 
her ear. The answer, too, was quite inaudible, 
but the beautiful girl seemed very happy, raising 
her dazzling gray eyes to his and absently toying 
with her bouquet. 

“Who is that? demanded Mrs. Trouville of 
Miss Robertson, who happened to be standing at 
her side. 

“ Don’t you know Miss Marks ? ” asked Mrs. 
Sturtevant-Brown, coming forward before the 
other had a chance to speak. “ Is she not lovely ? ” 
she continued admiringly, “ She is engaged to be 
married, you know, to Mr. Bernadin Stokes.” 

Reuel Crompton Tuttle. 


&f)e (tttan °PDf >o <Bof Cont>erfei>. 


4 4 T SUPPOSE escapes are impossible, except in 
novels ? ” said I. 

“ Do any of them ever reform in here ?” 
chimed in the theological student at the same 
moment. “ What do you think of converted con¬ 
victs, anyway ? ” 

We were sitting in the chief warden’s cozy 
office ; and feeling abominably sober, too, in spite 
of his excellent cigars. When one is taken over a 
great prison he must be prepared to come out a 
little dejected — it is the contagion of the air. 
One must not expect to see a minstrel show, and 
it is doubtful if he can detect the melodrama in it. 
The triumph of the law had seemed very incom¬ 
plete and pitiful as we looked on that long line of 
men shuffling down the corridor in the lock-step. 
Many of the faces were villainous, all were gloomy. 
An indescribable listlessness about their move¬ 
ments suggested the absence of the soul, and they 
had eyes of agate. It was such thoughts as these 
that were responsible for our almost painful 
silence, as we sat there in the warden’s office, 
busily smoking his cigars. But the inquiries of 
the theological student and myself, spoken sud¬ 
denly and in concert, had broken the somewhat 
disagreeable charm. The theological student’s 




THE MAN WHO GOT CONVERTED. 


109 

voice was louder than mine, and his questions were 
longer, so he may be said to have had the floor. 

“ What do you think of converted convicts, any¬ 
way ? ” he asked. 

The warden stopped short in his perambula¬ 
tions across the room. 

“ What do you think of death-bed repentances ? ” 
he said. 

“Why, I — I don’t know!” the Theological 
student spoke a trifle awkwardly. 

“ Well ! ” The warden shrugged his shoulders 
a little. “ I don’t know what I think about prison 
conversions. They’re both about the same thing, 
I guess — a sort of a high trump that men pull out 
of their sleeves, to cheat either the devil or the 
prison officials out of what belongs to ’em — See ? 
But once in a while the game’s honest,” he added 
hastily. 

The chief warden made a very striking figure 
as he stood there. He had been a general in the 
late war. When he said “ Go ! ” to a person, there 
was a certain peculiar look in his eye that induced 
the individual to depart without saying a word. 
He was the man a woman might appeal to in a 
crowd. 

“ I can tell you about a fellow who got con¬ 
verted here,” resumed the warden. “ He was 
sent up for ten years ; he was the meanest brute 
that ever put on stripes, and his eyes were like a 
snake’s. The subtle influence of that man poi¬ 
soned the whole prison. He broke out into the 
corridor with a shoe knife one night, and the 
10 


no 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


watchman shot at him before he dropped it. 
Every two or three weeks he’d have a fit in his 
cell, and curse till he was hoarse. Well ! When 
that man got converted, we watched him pretty 
close. We have to. He came it over the chaplain 
in three months, but it was several years before he 
fully convinced me of his sincerity. You never 
saw such a change come over a person in your 
life. He was just as respectful and obedient—but 
the great change was in his eye ; it lost the old 
hang-dog look and was as clear as a bell; and he 
held his head up like a man, too. You remember 
that great iron basin that was sunk into the wall 
in each cell, don’t you ? ” 

We both nodded. 

“ There is a little hole bored in the bottom of 
it,” he went on, “ and the acoustics are so arranged 
that the sounds in the cell go through. Well, 
every night, when the watchman squinted in, he 
found that man praying like a fiend — every single 
night, for two years.” 

“ You didn’t think he was shamming then, did 
you? ” said the theological student. 

“ I knew it was a very old game,” returned the 
warden, “ and thought he might possibly be on 
the make. But I had to give way at last. The 
secret influence of that man’s life actually began 
to convert his fellow convicts. One night one of 
the sick prisoners was dying in the hospital, and, 
instead of asking for the chaplain, he requested 
that the converted convict might come in. You 
could have knocked me down with a feather. I 


THE MAN WHO GOT CONVERTED. 


Ill 


said ‘ Yes,’ and staid there in the room. Well, sirs! 
The simple, unaffected, manly way with which 
that convict spoke to the dying man made my 
eyes wet. There was no cant about him, either. 
He was the man for the hour.” 

“ The world has more need for that man,” said 
I, “ than the prison has.” 

“ That’s just what I said myself,” exclaimed the 
warden, “ and I exerted all my influence in his 
behalf, and managed to secure him a full pardon.” 

“ Well done ! ” I cried. 

“ That shows what honesty will do for a man,” 
said the theological student. 

“ That isn’t quite all of the story, though,” re¬ 
sumed the warden. “ The day I got the pardon 
for him he came into the office in a suit of citizen’s 
clothes. He seemed all broken up. ‘ General,’ 
said he, ‘ am I at liberty ? Are you sure ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ I 
said, ‘ and you are my personal friend. If there is 
anything you want, name it. If you want money 

_ 9 

“‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted the convict, — his 
voice quavered, but he stood up very straight — 
‘ there is only one thing I am going to ask. It is 
just this. That old Bible, which I learned to use 
in here, which has so many associations for me, 
and which has changed the whole character of my 
life — I want that Bible.’ ” 

The theological student drew in his breath. 
The warden went on. 

“ I gave it to him. Very carefully he received 
it into his hands — you would have thought it was 


I 12 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


a baby. Very reverently he raised it to his lips, 
and talked to it — his words seemed choking him : 
‘You have done for me more than I thought you 
would, you have helped me more than I hoped 
you could, you have made me what I am’— He 
looked up. The mask fell from his face. In a 
flash he was changed back into his old self again. 
His voice rose into a hoarse shriek — ‘ Now go to 
Hell /’ And slamming the book across the room, 
he burst it against the wall. He went out in one 
of his old fits of cursing. I shall never forget that 
face as he turned around at the door. It had 
snake’s eyes again, and its leer was Satan’s own.” 

The warden sat down, and reaching over the 
table picked a speckled cigar out of the box. 

“By Jove, General,” I cried, “how that man 
must have gloated over that denouement! how he 
must have repeated it over to himself as he lay in 
his cell at night and fairly fed on it in his thoughts ; 
when one little overt act of his would have de¬ 
stroyed the hypocrisy of years ! ” The warden 
remained silent. 

“Well !” I said, with an unnatural laugh, “he 
took the trick ! — and that’s the great aim in life 
after all. He knew how to lay his cards down ! — 
he played the knave.” 

“No,” said the theological student, “he played 
the fool.” 

The warden bit the end off his cigar. 

“ That sort of thing may take an occasional 
trick,” he said, “but it can’t win a game. Six 
months later he turned up in Sing Sing.” 

Lucian Waterman Rogers. 


<foofiQt$afF <10 it t0 (Jpfagcb. 


T HE sun had sunk low, and the last glowing 
athlete, striped like a wasp, had disappeared 
through the gate. Mr. Briggs, who had 
taken the contract to cut the “ bloomin’ ” grass on 
the foot-ball field and had probably worked less 
than fifteen minutes the whole afternoon, was left 
behind with a little boy. 

“Gosh!” ejaculated the ancient man, as he 
carefully lifted his scythe across his shoulder and 
followed the retreating footsteps, “ Did you see 
the big feller with the muzzle, who laid upon the 
ground, all covered with blood and couldn’t move ? 
George ! He must have been calling them fear¬ 
ful names to make them all set into him like that! 
And did you see them chase the little stout man 
all over the yard ? He knocked three of them 
down and ran away, and there couldn’t nobody 
stop him. He didn’t have a bad face either ! 
But I guess if they ever catch him they’ll lay him 
up! ” 

“ I don’t find no fault with young men playing 
at kick the foot-ball,” went on the sage, “and I 
always like to see young folks happy. But when 
young men who come here on purpose to play 

10* 




TRINITY SKETCHES. 


114 

kick the foot-ball, get into a low, coarse fight and 
knock one another down and don’t play no foot¬ 
ball at all, they ain’t gentlemen. They ain’t gen¬ 
tlemen,” said the old man violently, “I don’t care 
who they be ! And if I should go up there and 
tell softie of them professors how they all pitched 
onto the big feller with the muzzle and smashed 
his face in, they’d be a heap of trouble for some¬ 
body round here ! But I ain’t no tale-bearer,” 
said the venerable man, as he passed out of the 
ball field, “ I just mind my own business and don’t 
say nothing to nobody.” 

Lucian Waterman Rogers. 




$ore; r ffl$cef of ©me. 


i C A ND your daughter,” said Lady Smalltow- 
r A ers, “ She must be impressive.” 

“ On the contrary. She is candor it¬ 
self. She is such an incitement. But — ” Mrs. 
Beeter hesitated and then went on briskly, “ Un¬ 
fortunately, she is of average height.” 

“ That doesn’t matter much when it’s not all in 
one place,” rejoined concisely Lady Smalltowers, 
who had the remains of great height. 

“ Ah, but Agatha is so hopelessly juste milieu. 
You are always on one side of her or behind her, 
or in front of her, wherever you place yourself.” 

“I do not quite understand you,” said Lady 
Smalltowers, with more insistence than emphasis. 
“ I have known girls to marry people.” 

“ It is Agatha’s orientation, you know. It 
brings her into strained relations and out again.” 

“ Ah, I understand,” said Lady Smalltowers, 
unaccentedly. She had a way of leaving off her 
accents which had the effect of the wrong side of a 
damask table-cloth, and suggested indefinably that 
she came from the Northeast. She did this with 
infinite tact, so that you felt intellectually at ease. 

“ Then, will you please explain it all,” said Mrs. 




TRINITY SKETCHES. 


116 

Beeter. “ I give you notice that I shall cling to 
you.” 

“ My dear child, we understand one another. 
You are infinitely alloying. I will marry her.” 
Lady Smalltowers, who was handsomer than ever 
when she laughed, did not laugh. 

Mrs. Beeter looked puzzled. She had not ex¬ 
pected Lady Smalltowers not to laugh. It seemed 
too summary. 

“ The poor child will have something,” she 
murmured. 

Lady Smalltowers’ eyes approached one another 
one three-millionth of an inch. She glanced 
towards the window and said guardedly, “ Do you 
mean money ? ” 

“ No, not exactly money.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Lady Smalltowers, with a 
tonic accent on “Ah.” No one could be better 
aware than she how much women knew who knew 
nothing. 

“ It’s stocks and bonds and incomes,” said Mrs. 
Beeter, breaking down. “ She is fastidiously clever 
and doesn’t care.” 

“ That complicates matters,” said Lady Small¬ 
towers, tumultuously. 

“ But worse than that, she doesn’t care that she 
doesn’t care.” 

“ That is much simpler.” 

“ On the contrary, it seems to me more in¬ 
volved.” 

“ My dear, do you not know that the more 
involved such things are, the simpler they are,’ 


THE FORE-WHEEL OF TIME. 


117 

said Lady Smalltowers with the air of meditating 
in silence. 

“ Yes, to a woman of yonr position, perhaps,” 
said Mrs. Beeter, smiling with her basking candor. 

“We will have her married and in the smart 
set.” 

Lady Smalltowers was superb in her utterance 
of finalities. Her words had the solemnity of a 
benediction, and Mrs. Beeter remained motionless, 
her head slightly bent forward. For a moment it 
seemed as if she would faint. But, though not 
belonging to the very best set, she was far too 
well-bred for that. After a pause she said resent¬ 
fully, and with an air of balancing three probabil¬ 
ities, “ Will there be a wedding ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said Lady Smalltowers with a 
frigidity which had the effect of not lowering the 
temperature. “ And now we will dress for dinner.” 

Mrs. Beeter, too, arose. She was a trifle corpu¬ 
lent, and life took on a dismal introspection. She 
was less inclined to despondency than her friend, 
and Agatha’s marriage seemed, in the light of that 
inclination, not altogether unattainable. Dressing 
for dinner caused her to forget the past and the 
future in the absorbing insistence of the diurnal 
As for Lady Smalltowers, dressing for dinner was 
to her what it should be, a solemn purification. 
When she was dressed she exhaled beatitude, and 
those privileged to be near her underwent the 
excitement of a mysterious exaltation. Not that 
she scintillated or glowed — only the unspeakable 
middle-class people do that. You could hardly 


Ix g TRINITY SKETCHES. 

have offended her more, had you suggested that 
she perspired, something so unmistakably Ameri¬ 
can that it is never alluded to. When you ap¬ 
proached Lady Smalltowers when she was dressed 
for dinner, you felt the serene elevation which the 
neighborhood of perfection brings. Those not 
privileged to do so remained thin and empirical 
all their lives. Her taste was so unerring that she 
never mentioneed things, she made you think of 
them ; and if you discovered that they were the 
wrong things, you experienced the mortification 
of knowing that you had fallen in her estimation. 

On entering the room, she found her son, Lord 
Pythian, standing near the mantel. He was a 
man with some feminine aggravations, though 
conscientiously modern, and considered patriotism 
a fifth-rate impertinence, proper enough for for¬ 
eigners, who invented many hideous things. 
Agatha and her mother soon followed, for even 
Agatha’s independence had not reached the point 
of making her late for an important function. 
Lord Pythian took Mrs. Beeter out, and Agatha 
followed with Lady Smalltowers. To go into din¬ 
ner with Lady Smalltowers was an event, and it 
was Agatha’s misfortune to be unaware that some¬ 
thing was taking place. In her youthful ineptitude 
she regarded it as an occurrence, whereas it was a 
culmination. She sat between Lord Pythian and 
his mother with a very imperfect sense of propin¬ 
quity, and originated remarks on ordinary mat¬ 
ters. Lady Smalltowers trembled lest she should 
say something with a definite meaning, but recov- 


THE FORE-WHEEL OF TIME. 


”9 

ered when she remembered that nobody would 
understand her. 

The conversation turned on Lord Beaufort’s 
escapade. They agreed that he was ill-balanced. 
He had departed to America before he visited the 
south of France. 

Lord Pythian said Beaufort always impressed 
him as having no center. He spoke slowly, but 
with a bland and unconscious rectification. You 
gathered that Lord Beaufort’s conduct was painful 
to him. 

“ Why do you pronounce the name to rhyme 
with duffer ? ” asked Agatha, with an effusive 
smile — one that wouldn’t do in England. 

She was conscious of her misstep at once. A 
negation of the intellectual frontier had occurred, 
and Lady Smalltowers replied with a vague alarm. 

“ My dear, people do not give reasons for 
things. Things simply are.” 

Lord Pythian had paled distinctly. Spelling 
was not a subject people of his class talked about. 
He felt as he might have, had he been accused of 
acting from a motive. There was something de- 
gradingly commercial about motives and reasons. 
Mrs. Beeter was silent, but there are many ways 
of being silent. Lord Pythian had an atmosphere 
and diffused silence through it. Poor Mrs. Beeter 
had no atmosphere. 

After dinner, Lord Pythian told his mother 
that he should sleep in the haunted chamber- 
There was no story about this chamber, and noth¬ 
ing whatever had ever happened in it. Still, it 


120 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


was distinctly haunted by something unknown and 
nameless. It was exactly like other rooms which 
are not haunted, and this was the mysterious thing 
about it. Lord Pythian came of a long line of 
soldiers, and his mother knew from the intensely 
living expression of his eye that he had determined 
to brave the terrors of the haunted room. But she 
made no effort to dissuade him from the formida¬ 
ble ordeal. Perhaps a mother of the middle class 
might have remonstrated in view of what might # 
not happen. But Lady Smalltowers was not of 
the middle class. 

That night there was the vague electric ten¬ 
sion in the air which precedes a catastrophe. 
Lady Smalltowers and Mrs. Beeter sat solitary in 
their rooms. If either slept no one but the sleeper 
was aware of their dreams. Tire servants slept, 
all but the housekeeper and butler, whose loyalty 
to the family was like the feeling of dumb animals. 
At nine next morning Lady Smalltowers and the 
housekeeper walked past the door of the haunted 
chamber. Lady Smalltowers looked tall in the 
morning light. She wore, of course, no jewels, 
but her morning dress was perfect in all its 
appointments. In her hand she clutched a minia¬ 
ture of her son. She thought she might not recog¬ 
nize him. Her bearing was inexpressibly digni¬ 
fied, but touched with aristocratic tedium. She 
passed the door of the haunted chamber and went 
into her morning room. She was too thorough¬ 
bred to evince curiosity even if she felt it. Then 
she said to the housekeeper, “ Call Lord Pythian." 


THE FORE-WHEEL OF TIME. 


T 2 I 


Her agitation may be conjectured from the 
appalling fact that she gave the order to the house¬ 
keeper and not to the footman. Probably the 
housekeeper called him. At all events, Mrs. 
Beeter and Agatha always appeared to think so. 

Charles Frederick Johnson. 


11 




T TERE is nothing in this world so common, so 
readily given away and consequently so 
cheap, as good advice. We have already 
safely stowed away in the rubbish heap of our 
minds enormous consignments of this commodity, 
which would essay to teach us the most proper 
way of running a college paper. If we could only, 
conjurer-like, “borrow some gentleman’s silk hat 
from the crowd,” put in a little of the above ad¬ 
vice, carefully covered over with a handkerchief, 
and take out a bright, racy “ article ” on the times ; 
or if the same superior mind which evolved all 
this criticism and journalistic information would 
only take up his inspired pen and write a sample 
article for the paper — instead of taking up stones 
to cast at it — the Tablet would doubtless be a 
shining star in the firmament of college journal¬ 
ism. If, on the other hand, we could only sell, at 
the merest nominal figure, the smallest part of 
this wholesale commodity, we would be ordering 
an eighty-thousand-dollar steam yacht to-day, and 
keep a box of fifty*cent cigars in our office drawer, 
wrapped up in gilt paper. 

Now, of course, both as individuals and collect- 




THIS THANKLESS WORLD. 


123 

ively, we are painfully conscious that we don't 
know anything at all about running a college 
paper ; that an ordinarily intelligent goat can run 
it better than we do, and that any man in college 
can write infinitely better articles than we can,— 
even the most despised freshman. But why don’t 
they ? The question dies unanswered in the cir¬ 
cumambient air. Truly, it is pitiful to see such 
magnificent material go to waste. 

A few days ago two men ascended the chapel 
stairs. They represented two distinct and sep¬ 
arate orders of society — the criticiser and the 
criticised. The one was a Pharisee and the other 
an editor. 

The Pharisee was scrupulously dressed in the 
height of fashion, in apparel glorious to behold. 
The editor wore reseated trousers, with a long 
frock coat to cover the missing integrity. But 
who could penetrate the mystery which an extra 
long coat-tail hides ? These much-abused and 
embarrassing garments also were in that romantic 
condition which is known in the vulgar vernacular 
as “ High Tide,” making such close connections 
with the tops of his boots that they were just too 
late to catch them. 

The well-kept locks of the Pharisee, again, 
were perfumed and curled; and while each sep¬ 
arate ringlet was distinctly articulate, all, taken as 
a whole, made an effect not unlike a sonnet read 
aloud. The editor’s hair, however, was all stern 
and wild, hanging in long sheaves adown his neck, 


124 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


— partly because it gives a man a halo of literary 
renown to have his hair all stern and wild, hang¬ 
ing in long sheaves adown his neck, and partly, 
also, because the pecuniary emolument attached 
to the position of editor was not sufficient to buy 
him a twenty-five cent hair cut. 

“ Why don’t you give your paper a little indi¬ 
viduality ? ” demanded the Pharisee ; “ a little 

dash of the original, once in a while ? Why, it’s 
just like a whitewashed fence ! For Heaven’s 
sake, man, put something or other in it, if it’s only 
a circus poster or a ballet girl! ” 

We did so. Sacrificing ambition and popular 
applause for the greatest good of our fellowmen, 
we pictured — in a style modeled from the Phar¬ 
isee’s suggestion, with a dash of fantastical aban¬ 
don ,,— a few glaring evils of social life, with com¬ 
ments on the public morals. The next day the 
paper had acquired the reputation abroad of being 
a‘scurrilous sheet.’ 

Oh, thankless world ! 

“ Why do you make everything so solemn and 
lugubrious ? ” said the Pharisee again. “ Do you 
publish your paper in the morgue ? Put a little 
life into it occasionally,— anything that will provoke 
a smile ! Get a ‘ funny man,’ if necessary, on the 
board.” 

We did so. At enormous expense and inconve¬ 
nience, we procured the services of a professional 
wit of recognized reputation. We straightaway 
set before the expectant public a racy newspaper 
article fairly overflowing with subtle humor, yet 


THIS THANKLESS WORLD. 


I2 5 

harmless withal, and thoroughly fitting for a 
Christian young man to read,— eminently fitting 
to beguile the leisure hours of a hard-working col¬ 
lege student, in mirthful innocence. 

The next morning the Pharisees began to con¬ 
gregate. 

“ Have you noticed the pathetic struggles 
which that paper is making in its efforts to be 
funny ? ” says one. 

“Yes,” says the second Pharisee, lighting a 
cigar, “ If I were in the habit of writing things 
like that, I’d hire a professional assassin to call me 
in ! ” 

Thus it is all the year through. The chill 
breath of criticism alone rewards our toil, and 
gratitude is the weakest emotion of the human 
mind. Oh thankless world ! Before what class of 
animals do we cast our pearls ! 

Dunraven. 


11* 


(2t J=Kroff $6ouf f$c Coffege. 


Y ES, of course you feel anxious to get out into 
the world and begin your life work. That’s 
perfectly natural. I think every senior 
ought to feel that way ; but don’t pretend that 
you’re not sorry to leave Trinity College, for you 
know perfectly well that you don’t mean it. You 
stay here four years, you spend whole days in 
storming against some innovation in the curricu¬ 
lum which you dimly imagine has been brought 
about by a tyrannical faculty for your special in¬ 
convenience ; you tirade against some abandon¬ 
ment of custom, some violation of a long-cherished 
tradition ; you are profoundly sure that Trinity 
College is hurrying rapidly down hill every day, 
that this isn’t the place it used to be, and that you, 
for one, will be glad to leave the sinking ship ; but 
when the time comes to go, when you hear for the 
last time, perhaps, your classmates on the campus 
singing “’Neath the Elms,” when you go up to 
Chapel in lazy week and find that upstart Junior 
established in that comfortable corner that you 
have filled so long, it would be funny, if it wasn’t 
pathetic, to notice how petty your grievances be¬ 
come and what a desirable place Trinity College 
has grown to be. And when you have finally dis- 




A STROLL ABOUT THE COLLEGE. 


127 

posed of your furniture and take your dress-suit 
case to follow the hackman down the walk, you all 
at once become conscious that you are going to 
miss in future some of these familiar scenes which 
you have never thought particularly charming 
until now. You realize for the first time that 
there are graven on your mind memories that the 
lapse of many years cannot wholly efface. Oh, it 
just breaks my heart to think of leaving this place. 

Do you remember when you first came to col¬ 
lege how you wondered which was Jarvis and 
which Northam, and if you ever would learn 
which was the entrance to the President’s office. 
Those carved heads over the door don’t seem to 
frown to-day quite so grimly as they did that 
Wednesday morning when your petition was re¬ 
fused and you left college for a visit among 
friends. 

“Oh, Robert, O-oh, Robert!” There, the mail 
has come. See them crowd around the box. Per¬ 
haps you’ll hear from that Teachers’ Agency to¬ 
day. How many times you’ve rushed down stairs, 
expecting a letter from her , only to be confronted 

with a bill, a circular, or “ Nothing, Mr. J-.” 

Remember how in Freshman year you dropped a 
letter for her into the “ official ” box, and how a 
week after the Secretary of the Faculty found it ? 
Come to think of it, that was probably one reason 
she never wrote to you again. That was about 
the time you began to smoke, too, wasn’t it ? 

And there’s the bulletin board. No need to 
read the notices. You’re an alumnus now. Re- 


128 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


member how many times you’ve eagerly scanned 
it to see if you could spy the welcome information 

that “Prof. G- will not be able to meet his 

classes to-day.” It really don’t seem to make so 
much difference now, does it ? If you had spent 
some of your leisure time in study, your name 
would have been higher up on that Senior standing 

list. “ Mr. M-, representing D. Toy, will be in 

53 J. H. to-day to solicit orders.” Did you ever 
pay that bill ? No, that’s a meeting of the new 
Tablet Board, and doesn’t concern you. The Phi 
Beta Kappa meeting doesn’t concern you much 
either, does it ? 

Let’s stroll across the Campus and sit down 
under the old Bishop’s outstretched hand.— Got a 
cigarette ? Thanks.— He looks rather grim up 
there,— doesn’t he? — the brazen figure against 
the sky; and yet he always seemed to me to un¬ 
bend a little, and a faint smile seems to lurk 
around that resolute mouth when the waiter comes 
out with the lemonade. If he could speak how 
many secrets he could tell. Many lasting friend¬ 
ships have been formed here where we sit, beneath 
the Bishop’s benediction. Do you remember the 

last talk we had here with poor B-? Why 

should we call him “ poor ” ? He’s better off than 
he was here, I’m sure, dear old chap. 

There, they’re singing “We gather round the 
Chapel steps,” now. See them gather. How irk¬ 
some going to Chapel used to be ! See Robert 
holding out his watch. “Time,” and they go 
jostling up the stairs. A few tardy Sophomores 




A STROLL ABOUT THE COLLEGE. 


129 

rush around the corner, and the door is closed. 
How solemn the service seemed yesterday, didn’t 
it ? I never realized before how much the prayer 
for the college means. 

There’s Mr. Adams over there leisurely beat¬ 
ing that old rug of yours. He leisurely cared for 
your room and blacked your boots for a good 
while. He did your father’s, too. Quite an old 
landmark is Mr. Adams. He knows the transient 
nature of a college course. See, he stops ; he di¬ 
rects that young Freshman to Jarvis with just that 
gesture with which he greeted us when we first 
saw him. Were Adams acquainted with Tenny¬ 
son, don’t you know, you might imagine him, as 
he rhythmically beats away, murmuring, 

“Men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever.” 

How quiet it is just now ! There’s not a soul 
upon the walk except Mr. Michael Doyle, and we 
can hear him plainly. “Bunker-hills, gintlemin, 
bunker-hills, popcorn. Buy me out, gintlemin, 
buy me out,” and he twirls his stick and shuffles 
down the walk. Old “ Apples ” is a great boy ; 
he’ll vend his apples and popcorn till cold weather 
comes and then he’ll seek seclusion — at the city’s 
expense. There they come from chapel; Apples 
hears them and begins anew, “ Hello, gintlemin, 
hello ! Buy me out, popcorn, bunker-hills, buy 
me out.” “ Sing, Apples, sing.”— 

“ O-oh, my name is Dan McCann, 

I come from Paddy’s land, 

I am a true-born Irishman.” 


130 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


“ Gintlemin of Trinity College, I wish ye all a 
happy New Year an’ a happy Fourth o’ July.— 
Popcorn, gintlemin, popcorn.—A good vacation an’ 
may ye all come back to Trinity ‘Colleges.’—Buy 
me out gintlemin, buy me out.” I wish we were all 
coming back to Trinity “ Colleges 

The western hills loom up against the gorgeous 
splendor of the setting sun; and now we sit in 
shadow while the fleecy cloud-piles of the east, 
far above us, are bathed in light. Now the more 
quiet tints of twilight steal on, and the roseate west 
grows old and gray, soon to be wrapped in a 
shroud of darkness. Will any sunsets ever seem 
so bright as these ? Do you recollect that charm¬ 
ing Junior that took you out on the cliff by the 
stone-crusher that first afternoon, and descanted 
on the beauty of that western view ? Wasn’t he 
just the nicest fellow you ever saw? He im¬ 
pressed me just the same. What excellent advice 
he gave about your room ! How grateful you felt 
for that little help with “ De Senectute ” ! 

Did you ever stop upon the walk late at night 
and look up at the towers and turrets that seem to 
project straight up into the sky? When the moon 
is flooding all things with dim, mysterious light, 
all is still, and only here and there a light burns 
dimly in some college window. The long windows 
of the gymnasium — unless it be the night of a 
German — reflect the ghostly moonbeams.— Come 
to think of it, you were a little fast in Junior year; 
perhaps you’ve seen several moons beaming down 
upon you when returning late to college.— Every 


A STROLL ABOUT THE COLLEGE. 


131 

stone in that old building is dear to us. However 
pleasant our surroundings in after life, we never 
can enjoy them more than we have our comfort¬ 
able quarters up in Jarvis. 

It is the privilege of old warriors to fight their 
battles over in memory, and I am sure we both 
feel aged to-day. And our college life has con¬ 
sisted largely of struggles—hasn’t it?—and strug¬ 
gles of many kinds. In some we’ve triumphed, 
and some, alas, have worsted us. Remember 
those old cane-rushes they used to have when we 
were underclassmen ? Oh, they were rushes worthy 
of the name ! What a shame we thought it when 
the Faculty abolished them! That first St. Pat¬ 
rick’s Day! I can feel now the quiver of excite¬ 
ment, the tightening of muscles; I can hear the 
labored breathing as we formed just outside that 
first row of elms — the cane in our midst, tightly 
grasped by our sturdiest classmates.— How many 
nice fellows we have lost since then ! — At last the 
word “go,” and we rush madly toward that coveted 
goal, the door of middle Jarvis. The determined 
Sophomores hurl themselves at our feet to stop 
our on-rush, and as we are borne back I remember 
noticing, even then, that the soft turf had been 
literally plowed by the many feet. And then 
we surge to and fro, jostled and crushed against 
the buttresses, squeezed and pounded, now down 
upon the gratings or the walk, trampled upon, 
bruised, yet all unmindful, striving for glory and 
that cane. Time and again we seem on the point 
of victory ; the supreme moment comes at last; a 


i 3 2 


TRINITY SKETCHES. 


quick, determined rush where our enemy is mo¬ 
mentarily weak, the cane is carried in, and we 
have triumphed. I forgot—you were on the 
other side ; well, it was a good fight; it makes my 
blood tingle even now. If you and I fight as hard 
as that out in the world, well both succeed, won’t 
we?—Must you go? Well, old man, give me 
your hand — confound this cold, I’m always blub¬ 
bering— good-bye, good luck. Come back next 
year and see me graduate. You’ll write. Good¬ 
bye, good-bye. 

Robert Peck Bates. 







rv <* 
O X JL 


130i 










Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Feb. 2010 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 


mm 
























































































































